


Will the Real Captain America Please Stand Up?

by theOestofOCs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers as family, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Ceiling Vent Steve Rogers, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Role Reversal, Till the end of the line, Winter Soldier Steve Rogers, and (b) the chance to tag "Ceiling Vent Clint Barton", full disclosure:, my motivation for writing this fic boils down to (a) feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-07-24 00:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOestofOCs/pseuds/theOestofOCs
Summary: On that fateful train raid in 1945, the angle of the HYDRA agent's gun knocked Steve back towards the ruptured wall of the train car. Bucky couldn't reach him in time.Steve fell. Bucky copes by crashing a plane.Seventy years later, Bucky wakes up, and finds himself in a world that's happy to let him take over as the new Captain America. He kind of hates it, but what's he gonna do? The real Cap, Steve Rogers, is long dead.(Right?)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Check it out y'all I have seven chapters written already (most of which are significantly longer than this one)! This baby's gonna UPDATE REGULARLY like a BOSS

_Till the end of the line._

But it hadn’t worked out that way, had it? They’d thought— _he’d_ thought that nothing could get in the way of that promise. Not Peggy (it was safer to be brothers anyways), not the war (Steve had done the impossible to follow Bucky there), not even HYDRA could keep them apart for long. He’d thought.

He was an idiot, Bucky decided. 

Not that that was news, or anything. 

He’d never be able to erase those images, though. He wasn’t sure he wanted to—his last glimpses of Steve. The blue light-gun going off, ripping half the wall from the train car and sending Stevie skidding in the same direction. The shield, rolling to a stop at Bucky’s feet; how it had ricocheted off the HYDRA agent’s chest and sent him flying when Bucky had snatched it up and thrown it instinctively, using an uncanny strength and accuracy he knew he hadn’t had before Zola. 

Steve, clinging one-armed to the torn edge of a train-car wall that was practically flapping in the wind. The way his face had stood out against the blowing snow, grim and determined and terrified, as he reached to grasp Bucky’s hand.

The look in his eyes when the twisted metal gave out. Shock and horror and then an awful sort of acceptance, the kind that comes when you’ve been waiting for an end all your life and you’re mostly just surprised that it’s taken this long to show up.

Usually, at this point, Bucky would go out and try to drink a bar, because he knew what put that look on Stevie’s face—all the nights spent nursing fevers that maybe this time wouldn’t break, all the winters of hacking, rattling coughs—and it wasn’t goddamn _fair,_ and he wished to God that he’d never had to see it.

(Turned out he could drink at least five seasoned alcoholics under the table before the world stopped making so much sense, which seemed like another thing he could thank Zola for.)

Unfortunately, right now Bucky didn’t have the option of out-drinking anyone, mainly because he was trying to crash a plane. 

Peggy was yelling at him over the radio. “Barnes, wait, just—just let me get Howard on the line. He’ll know how to fix this, he has to.”

On the one hand, if anyone could figure out how to remotely disarm an enemy plane in a matter of minutes, it’d be Stark. 

On the other hand, that was an awful lot of innocent lives to risk for a maybe.

“Peggy, listen,” he interrupted. “There aren’t a whole lot of options here. We both know what it comes down to, and this is my choice, alright?”

There was silence for a minute, which he used to bank the plane towards the Arctic. Then, “You’re a hero, Barnes. You know that, don’t you? Steve—Steve would be so proud.”

Bucky glanced over at the shield he’d been carrying when he got on the plane, now propped against the copilot’s chair. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be able to fill his shoes for too much longer. Sorry,” he said wryly. “Not that anyone could ever really fill those shoes. Wasn’t much that held a candle to Steve, the dumb punk.”

Peggy was quiet for longer this time. Bucky was starting to get ready for what he’d earlier optimistically called a “water landing” when she spoke again.

“We both loved him, didn’t we?”

Bucky stared down the white expanse that was only technically water and thought of Steve. Nothing to lose, now. “Yeah. Yeah, we did, Peg.” He sat back, away from the controls, and gave the sky his best cocky grin. “I’ll get to see him first, though. I’ll let him know you said hey—” 

And then there was nothing but static and snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	2. Wake-Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All three agents—Popeye, the bland one, and a dark-haired woman—looked at him with mild curiosity, and he sighed. “Look, let’s quit tiptoeing around and be straight for a minute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha as if Bucky could ever be straight

“…and the crowd well knows, with one swing of his bat this fella’s capable of making it a brand new game again…”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. “Steve?”

He looked around. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone, in a very nice hospital room. The second thing was that he and Steve had definitely been at the baseball game the radio was talking about, so either heaven involved a lot less harp-playing than he’d been led to believe, or something was very wrong.

A woman walked in, who might have been an angel but who looked a lot more like an ordinary nurse. “Morning,” she said cheerfully. “Or should I say afternoon?”

“Where am I?” Bucky asked suspiciously.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City,” she informed him. 

So. Definitely wrong, then.

“Swell,” he commented. The breeze from the windows felt real enough, so he sauntered over to the one behind the bed. 

“Uh, Sergeant Barnes,” the nurse stuttered nervously.

“Just want a bit of fresh air,” he smiled as he put his hands on the sill and leaned out. Would you look at that. Well, on the plus side, the level floor that stretched between him and the screens of fake buildings would make climbing down the side of the hospital a lot easier.

He launched himself out the window and raced for the double doors on the other side of the weird prison-room that held the “hospital.” To his surprise, they burst open upon impact, revealing a wide hallway with one wall almost entirely of glass, overlooking what at a glance appeared to actually be New York. Maybe escaping wouldn’t be so hard, after all.

“All agents, code thirteen,” a voice boomed overhead. 

Dang it.

Bucky skidded around the corner, shoving black-clad agents out of his way and barreling for a set of doors labelled “exit.” Again, they weren’t locked, and in the back of his mind he realized it was pretty weird that no one was shooting at him, even non-lethally. Not that he was complaining, of course, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Outside, he threaded between blaring vehicles down streets he only half-recognized. They belonged to New York, all right, only they didn’t—like he’d wound up in someone else’s dream, or the wrong New York. Finally he stumbled to a halt in what should’ve been Central Square, but… wasn’t. 

“Where am I?” Bucky breathed as black cars (were they cars?) squealed to a halt behind him. 

“At ease, soldier!” barked a voice which apparently belonged to a black pirate spymaster in a trenchcoat. Bucky was not put at ease.

“Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly,” Popeye the Spymaster went on in an American accent. Not that that meant much, with spies.

“Break what, exactly?” 

Popeye didn’t move. “You’ve been asleep, Barnes. For almost seventy years.”

Oh.

Was that all.

\+ + +

The first thing they told him was that they’d won the war. There was more after that, about SHIELD and new wars and using his skills, but Bucky wasn’t really paying all that much attention. At one point he interrupted to ask about his siblings, only to be informed that Benjamin had died of heart disease in the seventies, Abigail had passed away a few months ago, and Rebecca was the only one to have had any children before she died, one of which was firmly estranged and the other living in Poland.

After that, there wasn’t too much he was interested in hearing. 

He only tuned in when they started suggesting civilian identities. “If you like, you can leave the army entirely, try settling down for a while,” murmured a softspoken, balding man beside him. “You were a boxer before the war, weren’t you? Perhaps—” 

“No,” Bucky said flatly. The briefing room he’d been guided to went quiet. All three agents—Popeye, the bland one, and a dark-haired woman whose blunt confidence reminded him much more of Peggy Carter than any of the girls he’d known growing up—looked at him with mild curiosity, and he sighed. “Look, let’s quit tiptoeing around and be straight for a minute. An ordinary fella wouldn’t have survived that plane crash, let alone the next seventy years without so much as a wrinkle. Am I right?”

“That’s correct,” said Popeye evenly.

“And I’d already been figuring that whatever Zola poked me with in that POW camp…” he swallowed quickly, trying not to remember. “Well, it didn’t exactly have zero effect.”

“You would’ve been right, Sergeant Barnes,” the bland one interjected. “We had to run some preliminary tests in order to determine the best treatment for your condition, and it looks as though you have enhanced muscle strength, healing, metabolism, and likely speed and reflexes as well, from an inferior version of the serum Captain America took—” 

“But none of that means you couldn’t live a normal, comfortable civilian life,” the woman cut him off. Agent Hill, that was how she’d introduced herself. She looked him squarely in the face. “We could certainly use someone with your unique abilities, but unlike Captain Rogers, you didn’t volunteer for them. No one would blame you if you walked out of this building right now, and started a new life. The war you fought in is over, soldier. You’ve earned your shot at peace.”

Bucky snorted. For one thing, he doubted that _no one_ would blame him. Popeye was certainly giving Hill the evil eye. For another, well… “Peace, nothing, Agent Hill. I made this choice seventy years ago. I’m in.”

Nothing to lose, was that what he’d thought on the plane as it went down? He’d been wrong, after all. _Now_ he had nothing to lose, because he’d already lost it all. Now he just had nothing.

“When do I start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because this one and the prologue are both fairly short :)
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Assemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” Banner commented after a moment.
> 
> “Yeah, like toe fungus,” Bucky muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of a longer one for y'all! Enjoy!

Bucky was nursing a drink in the corner of his favourite seedy bar when Fury slid in across from him. “This your idea of a good time, Cap?” He eyed the peeling paint.

Bucky scowled. It was more the “Cap” part that bothered him than the insult; it _was_ a sketchy joint, that was why he liked it. What he _didn’t_ like was when people used Steve’s old nickname for him, but it couldn’t really be helped.

Steve’s shield had made it through the ice with him, and apparently the two-week period when Bucky’d taken over leading the Howling Commandos had made it into the history books as “Barnes becomes Captain America 2.0,” so SHIELD decided he might as well get a promotion when he joined their ranks. Now he was officially Captain America, though as a stealth agent he almost never wore the uniform. Still. Seventy years later, and he was still trying to fill those shoes, when everyone and their grandmother knew they only really fit Steve.

(Coulson had cited tactical advantages to the promotion, some of which had been fair points, but the more time Bucky spent with him, the more he suspected his handler was just a sap who was dying to work with one of “ _the_ Captain America”s. In the end, Bucky hadn’t had the heart to tell him there’d only ever been one.)

“Do you have a mission for me, Fury? Because if not…” Bucky hinted.

“As a matter of fact,” the director pulled out a file from somewhere inside his trenchcoat. Bucky raised an eyebrow. Usually, Coulson was the one to give him missions; over the past few months he’d been working closely with him, Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton, alternately or all together depending on the mission. People in the know were starting to call them the Murder Club, which Bucky felt was a little unfair. Coulson didn’t usually kill people.

“Something special this time?” he asked dryly. 

“Eh—just saving the world,” Fury shrugged. 

Bucky pulled the file closer and flipped it open. He glanced at the top sheet and blanched. _Tesseract,_ it read in bold letters, and beside the text was a picture of—

“HYDRA’s secret weapon,” he breathed. “Holy crap.”

“Howard Stark fished that out of the ocean when he was looking for you,” Fury said, folding his hands. “He thought what we think—the tesseract could be the key to unlimited sustainable energy. That’s something the world sorely needs.”

Maybe. All Bucky remembered was the guns that ran off its power, blasting good men into so much dust.

One guess what most people would be doing, if they got their gloves on an “unlimited sustainable energy” source.

He took another swig from his mug. “Who took it?”

Fury paused. “He’s called Loki,” he admitted.

Bucky squinted. “Wasn’t that the name of a Greek god or something?”

“Norse, actually. He’s Thor’s brother.”

Bucky remembered now. It was before his time, but Coulson and Barton had both been there. “Bad guy, right?”

“It gets worse,” Fury continued gloomily. If he wasn’t before, Bucky was worrying now. It took a lot to change Fury’s inflection. “Loki has some kind of mind-control stick, don’t ask me, but he used it on some of our agents when he broke in to the base. Long story short? He’s got Barton.”

Crap.

Bucky slapped some money on the table and stood. “I’m guessing you have a plan? Explain on the way. Let’s go.”

\+ + +

So apparently Fury’s plan involved not only Romanoff and Coulson, but also a narcissist with a metal suit, some genius guy who turned into a green monster, and Thor.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Thor was kind of just an unexpected, mostly unhelpful addition that everyone put up with after the initial fuss. They didn’t _permanently_ misplace Loki, so no harm, no foul.

“Unlimited power,” Loki was saying to Fury on the video feed, as the rest of them watched from some kind of computery table. Bucky still didn’t really get this stuff. “And for what? A warm light for all mankind to share? And then to be reminded what real power is.”

“Yeah, well. Let me know if ‘real power’ wants a magazine, or something,” Fury replied, and the screen went dark.

Bucky sagged back in his chair. When people talked about words being poisonous, they really weren't exaggerating.

“He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” Banner commented after a moment.

“Yeah, like toe fungus,” Bucky muttered.

“Hey, don't pick on him too much. Guy’s brain is a bag full of cats,” said Banner, grinning a little. “You can _smell_ crazy on him.”

Thor slammed a fist on the table, startling everyone except Romanoff. “Have care how you speak! Loki may be beyond reason, but he is of Asgard, and he is my brother.”

“He killed eighty people in two days,” Romanoff pointed out. This was why Bucky got along so well with her. She could shut down anyone without even having to stab them.

Thor cleared his throat. “He’s adopted.”

Then they got down to business and started preparing to fight aliens from outer space, because Bucky’s life wasn’t weird enough already.

Later on Bucky made his way to the lab where Stark and Banner were working, curious. He didn’t really think he’d understand any of what they were doing, but then, there weren’t any needles or white coats to trigger flashbacks, either, so it balanced out. He _was_ a bit unsettled to see Stark jab Banner in the side as he walked in.

“Ow!” was all Banner said, though, squinting with the sort of resigned temper Bucky recognized from years of dealing with younger siblings.

“What’re you up to in here?” he asked, wandering over. 

“Well, currently, we’re trying to figure out why Brucie here is tiptoeing around when clearly, he needs to strut,” Stark babbled. Bucky squinted. That wasn’t science, but it also didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. He looked at Banner, who shrugged.

“Also, trying to figure out what SHIELD is really doing with the tesseract,” Stark added casually.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as the least bit suspicious that Fury called us here now, and not before? It’s bugging him, too,” Stark gestured to Banner. “Isn’t it?”

Banner hemmed and hawed until he caught Bucky’s death stare. He fell silent, and began polishing his glasses nervously. “‘A warm light for all mankind,’” he quoted. “I think maybe that was a reference to Stark Tower. It was all over the news.”

“The Stark Tower?” Bucky asked, incredulous. “That big, ugly—”

Stark raised an eyebrow, and Bucky cleared his throat, flushing. “The new building in New York?”

“It’s powered by an arc reactor,” Banner went on. “Self-sustaining energy source. Right now, Stark is the biggest name in renewable power, so…”

“So why wouldn’t SHIELD bring me in at the start of the tesseract project? If they wanted clean energy, I could’ve had that for them months ago.” Stark walked around the table he’d been working at, pulling out some other, smaller device as he did so. “I should probably look into that once my decryption program finishes breaking in to all of SHIELD’s secure files,” he added, casually typing.

“You’re—”

“Yeah, in a few hours I’ll know every one of Fury’s dirty little secrets,” he grinned. Bucky couldn’t help it. He grinned back.

“And you’re confused about why they didn’t want you around,” he observed.

Stark shrugged. “What can I say? I’m curious, the answers are right there, sue me. Really. I can afford it.”

Bucky rolled the thought around a little longer, then gave in. “Let me know what you find out. I’m not too keen on letting the kind of weapons the tesseract can make slide under the radar.”

“Roger that,” Stark saluted mockingly. Bucky saluted back, and nodded to Banner before taking his leave.

If he was gonna have to fight all of SHIELD, he wanted a nap, first.

\+ + +

Of course, once Stark got his evidence, things kinda went downhill. One moment they were confronting Fury, the next Stark was calling Bucky a laboratory experiment and Natasha had an arm twisted behind his back to prevent him from breaking Stark’s face. Which was good, because if he’d thrown the punch he could probably have snapped the scientist’s neck.

Then Banner was holding the sceptre, and someone was firing on the helicarrier, and the next few hours were spent trying to keep from crashing into the ocean. By the time they had a chance to think, Coulson had been shot, Banner and Thor had been thrown from the plane, Loki’d escaped, Barton was back, and the aliens were coming.

From there it was another whirlwind of activity which largely consisted of demolishing New York. Bucky _may_ have taken a tiny amount of perverse pleasure in watching some of the buildings that had cropped up in his absence get taken down. 

Finally, though, all was said and done and exploded, and Thor was taking Loki and the tesseract back to Asgard, which was a load off Bucky’s mind. He waved as they blurred upwards and vanished. “Good riddance!”

Banner was moving in with Stark, since the damage the tower took was apparently easily fixed when you had unlimited cash. Before they left Bucky pulled Stark aside.

“Look, in all the kerfuffle I never got the chance to apologize,” he started.

“Save it,” Stark cut him off. Seeing Bucky’s face, he backtracked quickly. “Not like that, not like that, I meant—dammit, I’m terrible at this. Okay, the sceptre was obviously influencing all of us. You remember the way we were all acting before the explosion, yeah? All of us. Even Bruce, and we all know he’s usually got an iron grip on his temper. I’m not holding anything you said or did against you. Although for the record, I feel pretty bad about calling you an experiment. That was, you know, not okay.”

Bucky blinked. “Thanks, Stark. That’s…actually real decent of you.”

Stark waved him off. “Just don’t go spreading it around. Also, call me Tony.”

After they left, Bucky glanced at Romanoff and Barton, a bit uncertain now that Coulson was gone. Romanoff jerked her head, though. “Come on, soldier.”

He smiled a little. Maybe he was finding his place in this century, after all.

“Oh, by the way,” Barton added. “Coulson sent me a coded message. Apparently he’s alive, and wants us to visit.”

Maybe even a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this we start diverging from canon more significantly. (Also, if you enjoyed this one... Well. I'm sorry in advance.)


	4. Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, it got to feel like all that was left of him was his will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for something completely different!
> 
> TW for non-graphic allusions to torture, mention of vomiting, and use of it/its pronouns in this chapter.
> 
> Uh. Yeah, I'm sorry for this.
> 
> (*flees*)

Steve was screaming.

Occasionally, snippets of German filtered through the agony.

 _…Believe our fortune,_ they said. _Captain America, what a prize…_

_…Not worth saving. Cut the whole arm off and replace it. I will give you the designs…_

_…My greatest achievement. This will change the face of the war…_

The first time they allowed him to wake up without being strapped to an operating table, he was half-naked, with only a pair of shorts around his waist. He looked down at himself and took in the metal limb that had replaced his right arm (his drawing arm, would he ever sketch again?) and the black tattoo of an octopus that now covered his chest. 

He threw up.

“On your feet, soldier!” 

So began the training.

They tried for months to torture him into submission, until he didn’t remember what it was like not to feel constant pain, but he figured the serum gave him some edge of mental stamina because he never felt too tempted to stop spitting in their faces. Yeah, he was breaking, all right. He didn’t think he’d ever be the same again, didn’t think he’d ever sleep without screaming, but he wasn’t breaking in the direction they wanted him to. Eventually it got to feel like all that was left of him was his will.

That was when Zola came.

“Incompetent idiots!” he screamed. “One task, I entrust you with one task, and you cannot even do that!” And then he turned to Steve, chained and exhausted against the wall. “I suppose what they say is true, isn’t it, _haustier?_ If you want something done right…”

\+ + +

The tattoo on his chest kept fading, probably because of his advanced healing, no matter how many times they redid it. One night Zola, particularly frustrated at his lack of progress, went very quiet.

Steve had learned, above all, to fear the quiet.

“It wouldn’t matter so much if you weren’t Erskine’s little pet project,” he was muttering. “The other one, for instance, he was mine already. But this, this victory, it needs to be marked. It must be celebrated. My greatest achievement…”

The next morning the tattoo was replaced with something much more permanent, which also, incidentally, made Zola’s work much easier.

“You see, _mein haustier,_ I’ve been wanting for weeks to try out my latest invention, but I hadn’t been able to think of a way to safely connect it to your brain. I was almost ready to scrap the design and come up with something less invasive, but this is much better, don’t you think?”

Steve, strapped down on a chair that was plugged into the new implants in his skull and torso, could only scream.

And then he couldn’t think anything at all.

\+ + +

_“…Still isn’t what we were hoping for…”_

_“…triggered by…”_

_“…too many wipes to be feasible…”_

_“Well,_ mein haustier, _if we can’t make you our captain, we will still make you our slave.”_

\+ + +

The Soldier was rarely conscious. When it was, it remembered very little, except what it was told to. It understood German and Russian, and had a rudimentary grasp of a number of other languages (primarily European). English was forbidden, as was speaking, except to acknowledge a direct order. 

Sometimes, it remembered other things. In the early days, the Soldier had dutifully reported such events. For example, when it recalled a pretty girl with brown eyes, it informed its masters, who had consequently produced the girl (he thought she looked a bit odd; her nose was too long, her hair too light, but they told him it was her) and explained that she was simply one of their agents. She then showed the Soldier its place.

It had been. Undesirable. The Soldier tried not to remember again.

(And if a blue-eyed boy with dark hair and a cocksure grin would sometimes call out something he didn’t understand but recognized, down in the core of his soul? If the word Stevie cropped up in his mind when the Soldier was asked its designation?

He erased them as quickly as he could. Barely a memory at all. So there was no need to report. No need for recalibration.)

Sometimes, if the Soldier was left out of cryosleep for too long, the memories came more insistently. The Soldier didn’t know what they were, exactly—its masters always made carefully sure to erase them—but they possessed the Soldier’s body so it could not hide them anymore. It would speak. It would resist.

Resistance meant punishment.

The Soldier did its best to avoid waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	5. A Few New Insights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky _got_ why everyone wanted to be safe from the future. But, for God's sake, what part of “kill them before they have the chance to want to kill you” made Fury think, _Yep, that right there is a foolproof plan_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief references to lack of basic self-preservation. One character suggests another may be "vaguely suicidal," although he isn't really. You should be fine, but just to be safe <3

“Still vaguely suicidal, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged Natasha off, laughing as he changed into his civvies. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She raised a single perfect eyebrow. “Jumping out of a plane with no parachute?”

“I didn’t need one, did I? Would just have slowed me down.”

“Mm. Or saved you from an unpleasant end. We still don’t know just how durable the serum made you.”

“And how will we find out if we don’t test it?” Bucky returned. He gave her a winning smirk. She stared back, unimpressed.

He sighed and changed the subject. “I guess you still won’t tell me what information Fury was so keen on retrieving, huh?” Call him paranoid, but Bucky was not all that invested in letting SHIELD keep its secrets, after everything.

“Nope,” she enunciated. Oh well. He’d just have to get Tony to help him hack into the files. Ever since the Battle of New York their friendship had been going strong, fueled by a shared love of snark and mutual inferiority complexes, with an emphasis on the human inability to measure up to Steve. (Apparently Howard had been as terrible a father as Bucky would have expected him to be, if it’d crossed his mind that Howard would _reproduce_.)

God, he missed Steve.

“What about you?” Natasha asked, derailing his thoughts. “What’ve you been up to, lately? Tested any other serum-enhanced abilities?” She smirked suggestively.

“Nah,” Bucky hesitated for a moment. But if there was one good thing about sleeping through the past seventy years, it was that he probably wouldn’t get in too much trouble for finishing, “I met a pretty swell guy earlier today, though. Think I annoyed him into noticing me.”

“You sly dog,” Natasha deadpanned. “Wait, was that the guy you were with when I picked you up? If I’d known I would’ve left you behind.”

“Is that gossip I hear?” Clint’s voice floated through the window a second before the archer crashed into Bucky’s living room. “Are you two gossiping _without me?”_ He slapped a hand over his heart. “I have never felt more betrayed.”

“I take it this means you’re both sleeping over again,” Bucky observed.

They both ignored him, which was unsurprising. Lately they’d all been sharing an apartment whenever they were in the same cities; even Coulson dropped in whenever he could get away from his new top-secret SHIELD team and their bus-plane. The whole thing struck Bucky as vaguely dysfunctional, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t also kinda comforting. And hey, Natasha was wrong about him being suicidal, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take all the comfort he could get. It helped to remember that not everything he loved was on the other side of a gravestone.

Most things. But not everything.

“Bucky was just telling me about his potential new guy,” Natasha told Clint. “Tall, dark, handsome, and already annoyed with him.”

Clint clasped his hands. “The ideal man!” Then he flopped back on the couch. “I brought pizza, by the way,” he added, dropping a box on the table. 

“Clint, you are a true hero. Never let anyone tell you otherwise,” Natasha said solemnly through a mouthful of cheese and tomato sauce. 

Clint waved graciously. “So does this foil your plans to set Bucky up with Kristen from statistics?”

Bucky sat up, indignant. “Clint,” he began. “That's not how it works. It’s perfectly possible for someone to be attracted to both men and women, or people who are neither. In fact, more’n half of the non-straight community is bi or pan or something, which means that could be as high as five percent of the overall population—”

At this point he had to stop, because the other two were laughing too hard to hear him. “It’s _not funny!_ ” he said helplessly. “Bisexual erasure is a real problem!”

“Oh, Barnes,” Natasha finally said, wiping her eyes. “Thank you for that. No, I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “We weren’t laughing because we disagree. You make some very good points. It was just a bit unexpected, especially coming from a man who was until recently living in the 1940s—”

“Yeah, Buck, we’re not laughing at what you’re saying,” Clint interjected. “We were just laughing at _you_.”

Bucky stared incredulously, which only made Clint crack up again. 

“Not to discount your points, which, as I said, are very true, but why is this such a sensitive topic for you, Barnes? Are you bisexual?” Natasha assumed a serious, personally-interested expression, which at least encouraged Clint to _try_ to stop snorting.

Bucky was fairly sure she was asking more because she wanted to successfully set him up, and less out of true contrition, but he still gave in. “Nah. Just—Stevie was, I think. And I get tired of people forgetting about him.”

At that, they quieted. Well. For a moment.

“So I just realized Bucky’s never seen _Star Wars,_ and you know it’s only a matter of time before someone spoils it.”

Natasha’s eyes widened incrementally. “Turn the TV on. Now.”

\+ + +

Later in the week, Bucky convinced Natasha to drop him off at Stark Tower, claiming he wanted to take another look at the new stealth suit Tony was making him. “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to figure out the subway,” she reminded him as he got out. 

“Thanks, Nat!” he called loudly, sprinting away. “You’re a real pal!”

If he could avoid twenty-first century transportation for the rest of his life, he would. 

“You know, I always find it weird that you and the Red Scare are so chummy,” Tony commented when he walked in the common floor’s kitchen. Of course Tony knew who’d come with him. 

“Why?”

“You know—the Russian? Communist? Is—am I not making sense?” Tony waved his hands in the air. “You’re a fossil, aren’t you supposed to be mortal enemies or whatever?”

“The Russians and the Americans were allies in WWII, Tony,” Bruce said as he walked in. “By the time tensions really started mounting, Bucky was in the ice.”

“Oh. My bad.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Y’know, for a _genius billionaire playboy philanthropist,_ you can be pretty stupid, huh?”

Tony slumped dramatically, gazing at the ceiling. “Is anyone ever going to let that go? We agreed, it was the sceptre, none of us are accountable, moving on.”

Bucky shrugged. “I actually came to ask you for some help. Wanna do computer stuff?”

“This is why he’s allowed to be friends with me,” Tony told Bruce. “He comes in with his grumpy super-soldier face and then asks you to do ‘computer stuff.’ It’s like watching adorable cat videos, seriously.”

“What kind of stuff?” Bruce asked, ignoring Tony with the ease of long practice. 

“SHIELD’s hiding something” (“What else is new,” Tony muttered) “and I was hoping you could find out what.”

“Could you be more specific?” Tony asked. “Because literally everything SHIELD does is unnecessarily secretive. I need to know where to start looking.”

Bucky shrugged. “Weapons? I dunno. Anything else is probably okay, though, right?”

“I would never underestimate SHIELD’s ability to misuse the innocuous,” Bruce muttered darkly, “but it is a place to start.”

“Yo, JARVIS, any new finds in SHIELD’s databases re: weapons, manufacture, top-secret, and plans to take over the world?”

After a moment, the pleasant, synthetic British voice filled the room. “I took the liberty of modifying your last query to include ‘world domination’ and ‘world protection,’ Sir, and I think you’ll be interested in what I found.”

“Uh oh,” Tony pronounced.

“Yeah, that sounds bad,” agreed Bruce.

JARVIS pulled up a large blue holoscreen in front of where they stood by the kitchen table. PROJECT INSIGHT, the page read in capital letters.

“Yup,” Bucky said after a minute of reading. “That ain’t great.”

\+ + +

Bucky was kind of glad Clint and Natasha were off on separate missions that night. Natasha, at least, had some inkling of what Fury was up to, and he didn’t think it’d be smart for him to talk to her right now.

Bucky _got_ why everyone wanted to be safe from the future. Of all people, he was intimately familiar with the way everything could change in an instant, and not for the better. Wanting to safeguard against world-ending disaster was just human nature—one of the better instincts people had, as instincts go.

But, for God's sake, what part of “kill them before they have the chance to want to kill you” made Fury think, _Yep, that right there is a foolproof plan_?

“We’ve gotta stop this,” he’d told Tony and Bruce. 

“Already on it,” Tony had said, typing frantically at something on his arm. 

Bruce had put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll take care of this end of things. I figure by the end of the evening Tony will have deleted every trace of Project Insight he can get his digital hands on, but why don’t you see if you can talk SHIELD down from trying to build it back up again?”

Yeah, that wasn’t likely, especially since Coulson was still officially marked down as “dead,” and basically impossible to get a hold of most days. Trying to change Fury’s mind was an exercise in futility. Of course, that didn’t mean Bucky wasn’t going to try. He’d spent most of his life begging Steve not to fling himself into every possible battle; he was used to starting arguments he knew he’d lose.

He’d been thinking more tomorrow morning than the next ten minutes, but Fury was sitting in his living room when he walked in. That worked too, he guessed.

“My wife kicked me out,” Fury told him, which was when Bucky noticed how stiffly he was sitting.

Fury wasn’t married, except maybe to his job. 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, casually flicking on the light and wincing at the bruises on Fury’s face. “She finally got tired of your ugly mug, huh?”

He picked up a pen and paper. WHAT HAPPENED?

“Eh, I figure she’ll take me back. Eventually,” Fury shot back, pulling the chain on the lamp next to him so it turned back off. He typed out on his phone, SHIELD COMPROMISED.

Very quietly, Bucky cursed. A lot. All the profanity he knew, actually.

“You always did expect too much of her,” he said when he was done. “Anyone else know?”

YOU AND ME, Fury typed. “Just my friends.”

Bucky wished he hadn’t used up all the words he could think of. Well, no harm in saying a few of them again.

He was about to write out another question—who could be trusted?—but before he got the chance a rapid-fire series of shots went straight through the far wall, hitting Fury in the chest. 

Dammit, this was really not his day.

The front door burst open, but it was just Natasha. Bucky traded a very brief but very frantic glance with her before he grabbed Steve’s shield and bolted for the stairs.

He didn’t bother with individual steps, instead vaulting from flight to flight, so he made it up to the roof in time to see someone jump down from the next one over. 

“Yeah, no, nice try, pal,” he muttered, and took a running leap. 

The other person—it looked like a man—was moving almost as quickly as him, which was strange and a little upsetting. As soon as he got a clear line, Bucky threw the shield.

The man caught it. With a metal arm.

It’s funny, how time works. You can, apparently, blink and miss seventy years, but in that hair-thin fraction of time, Bucky saw the soldier in crystalline detail. He was dressed in black kevlar with lines of metal crawling up his scalp, but his bulletproof bodysuit left his arm and part of his chest exposed. Silver cords wound down either side of his throat to join a shining octopus that looked embedded in the soldier’s flesh. His face was covered by a heavy-duty muzzle, leaving only his eyes visible.

Despite everything, it was those eyes, more than anything else, that kept Bucky frozen in place. Because, see, the metal octopus labelled him HYDRA, but his eyes?

Those screamed “slave.”

Later, after Bucky’d had the wind knocked out of him by his own shield (well, Steve’s shield, anyway) and lost all sight of the soldier—after Fury was pronounced dead and Rumlow tried to kill him—he’d try to explain it to Natasha. 

It was the kind of look you get when you’ve screamed and cried and no one has answered, and fought your hardest only to have your body betray you. The look of someone who wants to be anywhere but exactly where he is, and knows there’s nothing he can do to change it. The look Steve’d always fought to keep out of the eyes of anyone else (the look he’d gotten, some nights, when he was black and blue and already getting sick even though it was barely winter). The look of someone begging for help when he didn’t have the strength to breathe.

“I know that look,” Natasha would say, as she drove their stolen car to the top-secret base that would hopefully have some answers. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Maybe not. But Bucky couldn’t stop seeing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the figures on bisexuality, cf. [the Human Rights Campaign FAQ page](https://www.hrc.org/resources/bisexual-faq).
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	6. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hate this plan,” Bruce muttered.
> 
> Well, Bucky reflected later, the joke was on Bruce, really. Beating HYDRA agents up in an elevator was kinda cathartic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, have y'all read owlet's [This, You Protect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752638/chapters/3745571)? I noticed while writing this chapter that it has lowkey inspired a bunch of my characterizations more than actual canon, so I feel the need to cite my sources. It's also arguably the best Bucky fic on the internet, so. Go read it. (I mean, after you finish this one. This one's pretty good too, she says with exactly zero bias.)

Bucky rejoined Natasha at the hospital. Clint’s mission was set to last for another day or so, and Coulson was still out of reach, but Bucky’d at least called Tony and Bruce to come join them. They stood outside the glass window of the operating room. 

“Tell me about the shooter,” Natasha said after a minute of silence. Her voice was very quiet and very, very neutral.

“Fast, as fast as me or faster,” Bucky started. “Strong, too. Looked a bit like one of Tony’s suits gone wrong—metal all over his head, chest and right arm. HYDRA insignia.”

If possible, Natasha went stiller. Tony was uncharacteristically mute as he watched the surgeons work, but Bruce asked softly, “Does that mean something to you, Agent Romanoff?”

Before she could answer, Agent Hill came up alongside them.

“Ballistics?” Nat enquired, in the same even voice.

“Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable. Soviet-made.”

The sound of Fury flatlining cut off any further conversation. 

“Don’t do this to me, Nick,” Natasha breathed, too quietly for anyone to pick up aside from Bucky, with his enhanced hearing. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Time of death, 1:03 a.m.”

\+ + +

“Cap, they want you back at SHIELD,” Rumlow told him. 

Bucky glanced at the other three. “Yeah, Rumlow, just a sec.”

“They want you _now_ ,” he repeated.

Bucky waved a hand. “Yeah. I got the picture.”

“Nope, that’s not gonna go well for you,” Tony said immediately when he turned back to them. 

Bucky shrugged. “I’m aware. Meet back here in two hours, and if I don’t show, spring me?”

“I hate this plan,” Bruce muttered.

Well, Bucky reflected later, the joke was on Bruce, really. Beating HYDRA agents up in an elevator was kinda cathartic. 

“Hoodies suit you,” Natasha told him when he found them in a room across from the vending machine. Bucky glanced down at the worn black sweatshirt he’d grabbed from a Goodwill bin and grinned back at her.

“Yeah, okay, but let’s blow this joint before Big Brother comes after their least favourite poster boy,” Tony interjected, shooing them out the door. “Nat, tell Cap about the flash drive.”

“You do know that I could kill you in five different ways right here, with nobody noticing?” Natasha checked, rather than obeying.

“Not now that you’ve told these guys your plans, you can’t,” Tony pointed out.

“I wouldn’t tell,” Bucky countered.

“Uh, the device Tony’s talking about is a USB stick Fury gave Agent Romanoff right before, well,” Bruce trailed off. Bucky appreciated the effort at peacekeeping, though. “Anyways, while you were busy being declared a public enemy—don’t look at me like that, Bucky, you’re all over the news—we tried to check out what was on it.”

“Unfortunately, it’s _ridiculously_ well-encrypted. Seriously, nothing needs that much security,” Tony grumbled. “Which wouldn’t have been a problem, but we were on a time crunch, so the best I could get out of it before we had to run was the location of its origin source.” He looked intensely disappointed in himself, so Bucky patted his arm consolingly. Tony glared, and Bucky retracted his hand.

By this point they were in the parking lot, and Natasha jimmied open the doors of a very beat-up white van with the windows painted over. “Well, I suppose if we’re criminals evading justice, we might as well look the part,” Bruce observed.

“So where are we headed?” Bucky asked, buckling himself into the passenger seat.

Natasha started the car. “Wheaton, New Jersey.”

“Swell.”

Before pulling out, Natasha turned to look Tony and Bruce each in the eye. “You know, we really appreciate your help, but as of right now no one is looking for you. You’re probably fine to go home.”

Tony looked offended. “Are you saying you don’t want me around, Romanoff?”

“I’m saying, this doesn’t have to be your fight.”

“Also, if you come with us, you’ll probably have to wear hoodies,” Bucky added.

Tony wrinkled his nose. “We can work around that, right? Anyways, doesn’t matter. This is where the fun is. I’m sticking around. What about you, Brucie?”

Bruce shrugged, adjusting his glasses. “I think that about sums it up, yeah.” He smiled tentatively at Bucky. “What’d you and Steve always say? Till the end of the line.”

On the one hand, that was real sweet.

On the other, now Bucky was clutching the armrests as hard as he could to distract himself and keep from hitting Bruce. That would be very bad, because Bruce didn’t deserve it, and also he’d either break or Hulk out. Probably both.

“Natasha,” he said abruptly. “Do you know anything about the soldier from the roof? You never answered, earlier.”

Natasha, of course, just nodded. “Most of the intelligence community believes he doesn’t exist,” she began. “The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier.”

“Wait,” Bucky interrupted. “Clint mentioned him once, on a mission. I thought he was just a ghost story.”

Natasha twitched an eyebrow at him. “Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires, we lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. The Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer so he shot him straight through me,” she tapped a spot on her right side, about level with her belly button. “Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.”

Bucky said nothing, but Tony muttered, “Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now.” Natasha smirked.

“So you think this Winter Soldier is targeting whatever’s waiting for us in Jersey?” Bruce asked.

Natasha shrugged, eyes on the road. “It’s hard to say. Going after him’s a dead end. I know, I’ve tried. Best we can do is figure out what Fury was trying to tell us, and stop it before it’s too late.”

\+ + +

The address Tony uncovered turned out to be for an abandoned army base. Tony pulled out one of his smaller doodads. “Scanning for electromagnetic abnormalities,” he explained. Bucky nodded knowingly.

It was better, he found, not to ask.

“Huh. Looks like there’s something weird going on in that bunker,” Tony pointed.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to wait in the car,” decided Bruce promptly, edging away. “Confined army shelters don’t really, you know, sit well with the big guy.”

“Roger that, Banner. We’ll fill you in,” Natasha acknowledged tersely.

They descended into what turned out to be a very early outpost of SHIELD. One of the back rooms had a row of photographs along the wall. “Oh, hey, it’s Dad,” Tony muttered. 

“Howard and Peggy,” Bucky said softly. They hung side by side in black and white. “Guess their work didn’t end with the war, either.”

Tony snorted. “Not hardly.”

Natasha was the one to discover the secret passage behind the bookcase, though Bucky had to help pull it open. Whatever the mechanism had been, it was either long rusted away or too much bother to find. Once they got it moving it slid away easily enough. 

“Now, what kind of secrets need to be hidden in an already-secret office?” 

Tony rubbed his hands together. “Presumably the same kind that need an embarrassing level of encryption on a simple flash drive. Let’s go!”

Natasha did something with her phone to figure out the code for the elevator—because it wasn’t enough that it was doubly hidden, it also needed a fancy four-digit electronic lock—and they slid smoothly down. 

Bucky was really starting to get nervous.

The doors opened into a large, dark space. The three of them cautiously stepped forward, making it halfway across the room before some unseen trigger made the lights come on. 

“Oh, I hate this,” Tony said. 

They were surrounded by some kind of computer, but it was nothing like the ones Bucky had been introduced to when he woke up. Instead of holographic screens and disembodied voices, the room was full of whirring tapes and wall-to-wall cubes of electrical systems that stretched off into the shadowy distance. 

Tony was actually twitching, Bucky saw. He nudged Natasha. “I think we broke him,” he whispered. She grinned a little.

“Ah! Something remotely decent! I mean, nobody uses USB ports anymore, but I’ll take what I can get,” Tony babbled, scurrying over to a black box that looked vaguely newer than the rest, lying on top of a table nearby. 

“Well, here goes nothing,” Natasha said, and plugged the flash drive into it. “‘Shall we play a game?’”

For a moment, nothing much happened, except the hum of computers around them got a little louder. Then green streaks started flashing on the largest screen in front of them, forming the vague outline of a person wearing very round glasses.

“Barnes, James Buchanan.”

Bucky stumbled back.

“Born 1916. Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Born 1984.”

He knew that voice.

“Stark, Anthony Edward. Born 1970.”

He’d never forget that voice.

He’d thought the one good thing about leaving everything behind was that he was sure never to hear that voice again.

“Some kind of recording,” Natasha suggested.

“I am not a recording, Fraulein,” said the computer. “I may not be the man I was when Sergeant Barnes took me prisoner in 1945, but I _am_ alive.”

“Bucky, do you know this guy?” Tony asked quietly.

“Zola,” he choked.

“Ah, so you do remember me. I remember you. Subject oh-seven-four. My first success.”

“You’re dead. You died a long time ago,” Bucky managed.

“Look around you,” the computer hissed gleefully. “I have never been more alive.”

“Oh, God,” Tony said, looking sick. “Not only are we surrounded by technology that should have been melted down generations ago, we’re also literally inside the brain of a psychotic sadist, which actually _did_ melt down sometime last century. Fantastic.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Herr Stark,” Zola chided. “Your father certainly thought my brain was worth preserving.”

“What is he talking about?” Bucky asked. 

“Operation Paperclip,” Natasha explained quietly. “After WWII, SHIELD recruited enemy scientists with strategic value.” She winced and looked away. From her, that was as good as an apology, though this one wasn’t her fault.

“They thought I could help their cause,” Zola added smugly. “I also helped my own.”

“Yeah, right, like you’d ever have gotten the chance.” Tony sounded flippant, but his eyes were dark. “Come on, Zola. You talk big, but you were only ever SHIELD’s trained monkey, weren’t you?” 

The screen flicked to darkness. “Accessing archive.”

What followed was pretty much just a HYDRA manifesto, although it was even more horrifying than Bucky had thought it’d be. Apparently, humans were too stupid to be trusted with their own power, but also too stupid to accept its loss. 

“The war taught us much,” Zola explained. “Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. SHIELD was founded after the war, and inside it the new HYDRA grew as well, a beautiful parasite.” 

“What, and no one noticed?” Natasha drawled, folding her arms.

“HYDRA learned to turn its focus to more subtle acts,” Zola responded. 

Apparently, he figured anonymous terrorism would be enough to slowly drive everyone off the tracks, fascists and democracies equally desperate to make the world safe again. “When history did not cooperate, history was changed. Accidents,” Howard’s face flashed on screen, labelled _deceased_ , “will happen.”

Tony made a pained sound.

Bucky shook off his half-trance. “What’s on this drive?” he demanded.

“Project Insight requires… well, insight,” Zola preened. “So I wrote an algorithm.”

Crap. In all the upheavals Bucky had forgotten about SHIELD’s latest project. That was maybe a mistake.

“What kind of algorithm? What does it do?” Natasha prodded.

“The answer to your question is fascinating,” mused Zola. “Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it.”

Metal walls slid over the door they’d come in through, too quickly for them to do anything. 

“Guys,” Natasha said, staring at her phone. “We’ve got bogeys. Fired by SHIELD.”

“I am afraid I have been stalling,” sang Zola. Tony cursed and flipped open the briefcase he’d been carrying, which apparently contained his Iron Man suit. Bucky ran to Natasha, who was already ducking under one of the tables. “Admit it, Sergeant Barnes, it is better this way. After all, we are, both of us, out of time.”

Bucky flipped up the shield to cover him and Nat, just in time. The world shattered around them into shards of sound and light.

\+ + +

Bucky came to in the back of the van. He slitted his eyes open just long enough to register this fact, and then groaned.

“You all right there, big guy?” Natasha’s voice filtered through.

He groaned again. “No.”

“Good,” she said. She sounded like she was grinning. Brat.

“Yes, yes, we’re all very lucky to be alive and un-Hulked-out and all that—”

“Really, that last part is just shy of miraculous—” Bruce interrupted.

“—But that does not mean I understand a single thing that just happened. This is a very unusual feeling for me, I hope you know, and I don’t think I like it, so could somebody please explain?” Tony finished. 

“I’m still surprised any of you knew about Project Insight beforehand,” Natasha told him. “Do you ever consider keeping your nose out of SHIELD’s top-clearance files?”

“I’ll stop snooping when they do,” Tony replied absently.

Bucky sat up slowly, noting as he did so that Tony was driving along a mostly-deserted highway and that, going by the sun’s position, he hadn’t lost too much time.

“Armin Zola, lunatic scientist for HYDRA and, apparently, SHIELD, which are also pretty much the same thing when it comes down to it,” Bucky began mechanically. “Downloaded his consciousness onto a bunch of computers and orchestrated the rise of Project Insight.”

“Wait, what?” Bruce asked. 

“I’ll explain later,” Natasha told him.

“Please tell me you deleted Insight from SHIELD’s files before we left,” Bucky begged.

Tony shook his head. “Sorry, Capsicle, I did my best but based on what I found, it looks like there are backup files on isolated servers I can’t access. I’d have to bring JARVIS to their physical location, and I don’t know where that is or how many there are. We’d be better off taking down Insight at the source.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered. “Cut off one head, baloney.”

“Yes, great, this sounds like a foolproof plan,” Bruce interrupted, “but on another subject, does anyone have suggestions for where we should go? Because, and correct me if I’m wrong, it sounds kind of like everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

“Not everyone,” Bucky remembered suddenly. “Tony, head for Washington. I know a guy.”

\+ + +

Sam Wilson turned out to be the best kind of good people. Bucky felt pretty bad for pushing in on him like this, especially since it meant that he’d be at risk, but then Sam let it slip that he was basically a superhero, too.

Well, he had robotic army wings that let him fly, which Bucky was pretty sure counted.

Sam also refused to be left out when they started going after HYDRA agents, which ended up being a huge help, and they successfully interrogated an agent Natasha had a hunch about for details on who Insight would target, and when (too many people, too soon, was the answer). Things got a bit dicier on their way back, though. The Winter Soldier crashed into their car on the highway.

Agents roared up around them, and Tony went down before he had a chance to whip out his suit. Bruce was only a second behind him. Sam started laying down cover fire, which helped with the HYDRA goons but couldn’t touch the Soldier, who managed to land a bullet in Natasha’s shoulder before she could dodge.

Everything was happening too fast. It was down to Sam and Bucky, and Sam had his hands full taking down the other agents. Bucky spared half a moment to catch a breath behind a city bus, overturned and abandoned in the street. No time to think. He dove back into the hail of bullets and fire, and before he knew which way was up he was grappling with the Soldier, wrenching the gun from his hands only to have it replaced with a pistol, and then a knife, and then another. Natasha was right, he couldn’t afford pity. He fought the Soldier hand-to-hand with everything he had, because he knew bone-deep that if he gave an inch right now he’d lose his life.

This wasn’t the aching captive he’d met on the roof. This was a ruthless killing machine, and if Bucky lost this fight none of them were coming out alive.

Finally, _finally_ he scored a real hit and sent the Soldier flying. His mask came off, and Bucky watched in what felt like slow-motion as he turned around.

Because yeah, he was paler, down one arm and clearly tortured to within an inch of his life, but that face was still—

“Stevie?”

For a long, liquid moment they stood suspended, staring at each other across the ruined street. 

_“Wer zum teufel ist_ Stevie?” the soldier rasped.

His eyes were empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	7. Reprogramming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier.
> 
> Or was he Stevie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-short one this time, y'all, sorry! Also for the content. Sorry about the content.
> 
> TW for use of it/its pronouns in this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!!

The Soldier always did its best to ignore what its body, its brain, did on a mission. It didn’t want to be awake.

Track. Shoot. Fight. Kill.

Eliminate obstacles. Minimum collateral. No evidence.

Identify target. Eliminate target.

The Soldier did what it was programmed to do.

(Had it had a will of its own, once? Or was that a dream?)

Then the target spoke.

“Stevie?”

A cocksure grin. A beautiful boy.

Stevie.

_No, don’t wake up. Don’t remember._

The Soldier was the Asset. There was nothing before. Before was dangerous.

_One week without getting in a fight, that’s all I’m asking, Steve._

The Soldier was—the Soldier— 

_Stevie? You in there, pal?_

The Soldier fired, and missed. 

_Stevie?_

The Soldier fled.

No. The Soldier reported for repairs. Its arm was damaged. Repairs were necessary.

As the Soldier reclined in the Chair, it tried to ignore the memories, but they wouldn’t stop seeping through the cracks. A train, falling upwards and away. A small man with round glasses, bent over him, grinning madly. A blue-eyed boy missing a tooth, shyly giving him a handful of dandelions. 

_Stevie._

The Soldier sat up, knocking the technician across the room. He stared at nothing, breathing hard.

“Soldier. Soldier, report,” said his master.

“The man on the bridge,” he breathed (in German, of course). The words escaped without his permission. He wanted to hide them, hoard them, but he _needed to know_. “I knew him. Who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week,” his master told him.

No.

“No, I _knew_ him,” he insisted. “Who was he?”

His master sighed and walked away. “Wipe him.”

The Soldier leaned back in the Chair without protest as the technicians connected the wires, plugging them in to the hidden sockets that had been installed in the back of his neck, his temples, the edge of his collarbone.

The Soldier. 

Or was he Stevie?

He jerked away, or tried to. Too late. 

Steve screamed, and was not.


	8. Revelations and Re-Evaluations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If nothing went wrong, they’d be saving the world today.
> 
> (Of course, Bucky knew better than to expect that nothing’d go wrong.)

“He’s alive,” Bucky was repeating numbly in the back of the SHIELD army van. “He’s alive. How is he alive?”

“Shut up, or in a second you won’t be,” growled one of the guards.

Then the other guard whipped out a taser and stunned the first one, which Bucky thought might've even surprised Natasha. The guard then turned out to be Agent Hill, and Fury wasn’t so dead after all, and they only had a few hours before Project Insight went up and everyone died, so Bucky didn’t really have a chance to process much.

But. Steve was alive.

“Too bad you lost your uniform,” Tony was musing as they sat and plotted around a table, located somewhere top-secret and underground. SHIELD really seemed to like that kind of thing, Bucky noted distractedly.

Tony snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey! You know where we can get another suit? That new exhibit at the Smithsonian. The real deal. What do you say, Cap?”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky growled. He held himself very, very still.

“Barnes,” Natasha said quietly.

“No, Natasha!” He slammed his hands down on the table. “I’m not Cap! I was never—that was _Steve!_ It’s all well and good to pretend to be him when he’s dead, but he’s—all this time—” he was shaking. “God, Natasha, what did they do to him?”

“I don’t know,” she answered evenly. 

“Whatever it was, we’ll get him back, Buck,” Tony promised, even while Sam shook his head.

“I don’t know about that,” he countered. “Stark, you didn’t see him fight. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pull any punches. He might not be the kind you save.”

The table groaned under Bucky’s hands. “Steve will _always_ be the kind you save,” he gritted.

“Maybe so,” Fury cut in, scowling, “but right now our primary focus has to be _saving the damn world._ Captain Rogers is gonna have to wait, Barnes. Are you with me?”

Bucky shoved his chair back and stood up, running his hands through his hair. “Yeah,” he said finally, his back to the table. “Let’s do this.”

\+ + +

The thing was, they didn’t just have to take down the three helicarriers of Project Insight. They _also_ had to dismantle all of SHIELD, to keep HYDRA from rebuilding within it.

“Look, all I really need is to get to the servers and hack into SHIELD’s files from there,” Tony said. “That leaves Barnes and Flyboy over there to chase after the helicarriers until I can get my suit. Sound like a plan?”

It was the best they’d got. They fleshed it out a little more, of course. Natasha still had a bullet wound, so she was out for the count (“I’ll be fine,” she said dismissively; “Yeah, no, not a chance,” Bruce replied), and they didn’t want to risk the Hulk unless there was absolutely no other way, so the two of them would stay behind and hack into the Triskelion’s security cams, updating the others via comms Fury provided. Fury would guide Tony to SHIELD’s central intelligence hub, where Tony’d need at least twenty solid minutes working on-site at SHIELD’s mainframe in order to get any info. After that, Tony would put on the suit and come help the other two disable Project Insight, while Fury did damage control for whatever needed it most.

If nothing went wrong, they’d be saving the world today.

(Of course, Bucky knew better than to expect that nothing’d go wrong. Still, might as well be optimistic, with the fate of the planet at stake.) 

Once they were well away from Fury’s secret lair, Tony did something on a screen that popped up above his wrist. A few minutes later there was a thump from the top of the van they were driving in. “Suit’s here,” he told Bucky.

“Stark, I told you—”

“Relax, Barnes, I got it loud and clear. This is your stealth suit,” he sighed, rolling down a window. A little drone crawled in and dropped some kind of black fabric in his lap.

“Dang, that thing is cute,” Sam blurted.

“You like it?” Tony asked. “Cool, I’ll make you one. Anyway, look, this getup isn’t a Captain America costume. Give me some credit, Barnes, I designed it so you could use it on top-secret missions. I just thought it’d be nicer for all of us if you put on something other than that god-awful hoodie you’ve been wearing.”

Bucky relaxed. “I like my hoodie,” he added after a moment.

“Yeah, well, we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Trust me, this is one of them.”

“…Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anytime.”

“Alright, let’s go over the plan one last time,” Fury started. Tony groaned loudly.

Ignoring him, Fury went on, “I know SHIELD security better than anyone, so, Stark, I’ll sneak you down to the server rooms, where you’ll—”

“Give the entire world access to every last shred of SHIELD info. Yup,” Tony drawled. 

“Hill, you’ll take Helicarrier One, Wilson’s on Two, and Barnes, you take down number three, got that? No risks, no funny business, just get in, insert the microchip, and get out.”

“Geez, you sound like an overprotective parent,” Tony rolled his eyes. “‘No, mom, I won’t start a fight with the teacher, yes, I’ll make friends with the Osborne kid, and don’t worry, the butler already made my lunch,’ alright, we’re all ready to go.” 

Fury stared at him. “You had a weird childhood, Stark.”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

\+ + +

Hill secured her helicarrier fairly quickly, even in the chaos that followed Tony’s impulsive PA announcement to all SHIELD personnel about, as he put it, “the ‘hey, your coworker might be HYDRA’ situation.” Bucky caught a glimpse of her parachuting out while he was still trying to fight his way through the last of his HYDRA agents.

Sam was only slightly less successful. “Helicarrier Two is secured,” he confirmed over the comms, breathing hard, “but I’m off the board now. I was on my way to help Bucky finish with number three, but the Soldier’s here, guys. He ripped one of my wings straight out of my suit, I’m lucky the safety chute deployed properly.”

“Copy that,” Natasha responded. After a moment, she went on, “I’ve got eyes on him now. He’s on board Helicarrier Three, closing in on your position, Barnes. You’re going to have to engage.”

“I’ll be along to help in ten minutes, fifteen max,” Tony added. “Just hang in there.” 

Which was all well and good to say, but it didn’t help much when Bucky turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with his dead best friend.

For a tense moment, neither of them moved.

“Hey, there, Stevie,” Bucky muttered cautiously. He started sliding a foot forward, but stopped when Steve tensed. “Do you remember me?”

Steve wasn’t masked this time, but that didn’t make Bucky feel any less sick looking at him. All it meant was that he could clearly see the excruciating blankness of Steve’s face, the way his gaze didn’t flicker as he shifted into an offensive stance. 

“Don’t—Steve, I’m begging you, don’t make me do this,” Bucky pleaded.

Steve launched forward.

Bucky fought back, hating himself as he did, but hundreds of thousands of lives hung in the balance and he couldn’t afford to lose. Finally, somehow, he managed to gain the upper hand long enough to stick the chip in its place and close the chamber.

Then Steve shot him in the back. 

The force of the bullet flung him forward and he cracked his head against the floor, seeing stars. A stabbing pain radiated out from the point of impact, but after a moment Bucky realized he wasn’t leaking blood. 

“Stark, is the suit you made me bulletproof?” he slurred, before Steve picked him up and flung him off the edge of the platform. 

“You know, I’m a little concerned—no, frankly, I’m disappointed to hear you found out about that so quickly,” Tony answered as Bucky crashed into the reinforced glass floor below. “What was that? No, just, give me three more minutes, Barnes, then I’ll be there, I’m on my way.”

Bucky hoped Tony made it in time. With his metal suit, it was possible he stood a chance at beating Steve; Bucky doubted he himself had the strength to manage it, even if he tried.

Which he wouldn’t. The world was safe, and he was done fighting Steve.

“Barnes, you need to get out of there,” Hill said in his ear. “The helicarriers are going to self-destruct—”

Steve jumped down and landed beside him. Bucky struggled to stand.

“Stevie, come on, you know me,” he croaked. 

Steve slammed his metal fist into the side of Bucky’s face, and he crumpled back down with an “oof.” Before he could land another hit, Bucky rolled out of the way and scrambled up, jumping (inhumanly far, thanks, Zola) to reach one of the lower platforms.

Instead of following, Steve started hurling throwing knives. Bucky ducked down behind the shield.

“You know me!” he repeated, more firmly. “Your name is Steven Grant Rogers. You were born the skinniest punk in Brooklyn, and I was always bailing you out of the fistfights you started.” He ran back towards the center pillar when Steve paused to pull out a different weapon, taking shelter behind it. “You always did want to fight for the little guy, even when you were the littlest one of 'em all. And so I was always fighting for you, covering your flank, except—”

A burst of blue electricity spurted from a pellet that dinged against his leg, although all Bucky felt was an intense tingling and a burst of pain in his ear as his comm shorted out. Apparently Stark’s suit was zap- as well as bulletproof. Keen.

“Except when I joined up in the War, and I couldn’t be,” he finished. Where was Steve? Bucky couldn’t see him.

“I’m so sorry, Stevie. I shoulda been there, should have stopped them from making you big, but I wasn’t and I didn’t and you followed me to the front lines and you fell—”

Pain exploded in Bucky’s temple and he was tumbling downwards, falling beside Steve, the way he should have all along—

He hit the glass floor and came back to himself with a jolt. Steve was still on the platform above, in this century, his metal fist smudged red (Bucky touched his head and found it bloody), pulling out another gun and aiming at Bucky’s skull.

Bucky rolled away as a burst of bullets sent cracks spiderwebbing through the already-weakened floor. “I should have known you were alive,” he called. “I shoulda known, Steve, I should never have given up on you, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Steve leapt down, stalking forward over the creaking glass as Bucky skittered away. 

“Maybe it’s too late, now,” Bucky said softly. He stilled. “Maybe Sam’s right, and it’s been too long, and I can’t save you anymore.”

Steve still didn’t blink, didn’t falter as he brought his metal fist back and socked Bucky in the face. Once. Twice. Again.

Bucky gazed up through bleary eyes at Steve (or was it just the Soldier?) as he drew back for another swing. “But this time,” he rasped, “I’m with you. Till the end of the line.”

Then the floor gave out beneath them, and they were both falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! :)


	9. Wake-Up Call, Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Barnes._
> 
> Not Subject 074.
> 
> A boy in a green uniform, smiling down at the Soldier— _Don’t go getting in trouble while I’m gone, Stevie_ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for use of it/its pronouns in this chapter.

The Soldier’s mission was simple. Locate Subject 074 (current alias: Captain James Barnes) and eliminate him. Prevent 074’s mission from succeeding, by any means necessary. 

The Soldier was not informed of 074’s mission. It was unnecessary information, and the Soldier had required recalibration mid-operation. Unnecessary information interfered with proper equipment functioning.

The Soldier located Subject 074 aboard an unfamiliar flying contraption. Mission parameters narrowed to elimination.

A man with metal wings engaged the Soldier, attempting to prevent it from reaching Subject 074. The Soldier removed one of the metal wings and threw the man off the edge of the flying contraption.

(Identified: the sound of a parachute unfurling. Something very weak and very small loosened in the Soldier at the recognition.)

Subject 074 was reluctant to engage the Soldier. He spoke in a language the Soldier did not comprehend, and after the first few minutes of exchanging blows, managed to escape long enough to do something at the central hub of the flying contraption.

After that, when the Soldier pursued him, Subject 074 only worked to escape. When cornered, Subject 074 provided no defense. 

Words filtered through to the Soldier. They almost sounded familiar. Had it known what they meant, once?

_Brooklyn._

_Stevie._

_Sorry._

The Soldier was beginning to wake up. The Soldier must not wake up.

The Soldier pressed its advantage on the floor of the flying contraption. It did not bother with its weapons any longer. Subject 074 must be silenced. The Soldier could not wake up.

“…Till the end of the line.”

The Soldier was awake.

 _Stevie._ The Soldier remembered—

Then the floor gave out beneath them, and both the Soldier and 074 ( _Barnes_ ) were falling.

Before anything could be done ( _Execute the mission – preserve the Asset – protect Barnes_ ), another metal flying man appeared. 

“Okay, Capsicle. Both of you, actually,” he said, snatching Barnes out of the air with one hand and the Soldier with the other. “Time’s up. You’ve had your fun, now you’re gonna come home and take your naps.”

English. The Soldier was not permitted to understand this language.

The Soldier understood it.

(Well. The Soldier understood the words, individually. It did not know what the metal flying man was actually trying to say. Perhaps this meant the Soldier was adequately following its orders?)

The Soldier hung limp and unresisting in the metal flying man’s grip. Mission parameters were unclear. The Soldier did not know what it should do.

They landed on the shore of a lake. On the other side, three flying contraptions were firing missiles at each other and sinking rapidly towards the ground. The Soldier was more preoccupied with the way Barnes remained unresponsive.

The metal flying man set the Soldier down and motioned at it. “Sit. Stay,” he ordered.

The Soldier obeyed, but watched carefully as the metal man (no longer flying) turned to Barnes. 

“Come on, Buck, wakey wakey,” he muttered, tapping gently at Barnes’ bruised cheek. After a moment, Barnes groaned quietly. “There you go. Show me those baby blues, honey bear. Do you think it’s safe to say stuff like that in front of your robot boyfriend, or will he murder me right now?”

Barnes blinked his eyes open and moved his head, searching. “Steve? Is he here?”

“For the record, I think it’s pathetic that you knew exactly who I was talking about,” the metal man told him, but waved a hand in the Soldier’s direction.

Barnes turned towards it, wincing. His eyes went wide. “Steve,” he breathed.

“Denied,” said the Soldier reflexively.

Barnes looked odd. Similar to how he would look if the Soldier had successfully shot him in the stomach, but the Soldier had not deployed any new weapons. “What?”

“Designation denied. Steve is an invalid entry. Use of designation: Steve requires automatic recalibration,” explained the Soldier. Specific instances were not available for memory retrieval, but he knew it was true.

“Well, then, what is your designation?” asked the metal man, when Barnes closed his eyes as if in severe pain.

“Designation: Asset. Property of HYDRA. Codename: Winter Soldier,” responded the Soldier distractedly. He did not take his eyes off Barnes. If Barnes had undetected internal injuries, he required immediate medical intervention. 

The Soldier was not permitted to initiate speech.

“Yeah, no, that’s not gonna cut it,” said the metal man. “Can I call you Locutus instead?”

“No,” Barnes growled, eyes still closed. The Soldier just stared.

“Oh, come on, Bucky, you don’t even get that reference!”

“Clint made me watch Star Trek with him until my brains were coming out my ears, Stark,” Barnes slitted his eyes open to glare. “You aren’t calling him Locutus.”

“Spoilsport.”

“When’s our getaway driver gonna show?” Barnes asked, presumably changing the subject.

The metal man shaded his eyes, looking upwards. “Should be arriving right about… now.”

The Soldier realized the sound of the helicopter that had been approaching for the last few minutes had obtained a steady pitch. He looked up to see it hovering overhead and gradually beginning to descend.

“Bucky, how’re your injuries? You up for a quick elevator ride?” asked the metal man.

“Sure,” Barnes told him. “What’s a little head trauma between friends?”

“Apparently not as big a deal to you as it really should be,” grumbled the metal man. He turned to the Soldier. “Wait here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey—” Barnes began to protest, but the metal man had already scooped him up and taken flight.

The metal flying man was back in forty-two seconds, demonstrating an almost unsafe degree of haste. The Soldier disapproved. Barnes must be protected. 

“You know, I was kind of hoping you’d run off while I was gone,” commented the metal flying man, folding his arms. “Save this whole song and dance for another day. Geez, do you ever blink?”

Desired response was unclear. The Soldier demonstrated blinking, just in case.

“Whatever. JARVIS, deploy tranquilizers.”

Something pricked the back of the Soldier’s neck. He whipped around, drawing a gun, and saw a small drone floating behind him. He didn’t have a chance to process more than that, though; his legs folded without his consent, and he caught a dizzying glimpse of sky before the world went dark.

\+ + +

The Soldier awoke in a Chair, already restrained and stripped of his battle gear, which meant recalibration was imminent. He must have been recaptured by HYDRA, then. At least Barnes had safely escaped.

He knew better than to struggle against the cuffs. He merely opened his eyes and remained quiet. He was in a lab, which looked to be chiefly equipped for modification of his metal additions. He could see three HYDRA agents from where he was positioned, one woman and two men. One of the men held a bow and had a quiver of arrows slung across his back. The other held an electronic screwdriver. 

“He’s awake,” said the woman, drawing the other two’s attention. She had very bright red hair. It drew the Soldier’s eyes to it. “Soldier,” she went on without pause. “Mission report.”

“Status: ongoing,” the Soldier answered dully. “Target escaped apprehension. Current whereabouts are unknown.”

“Repeat, in English,” the woman ordered. The Soldier drew back, as much as he could. He had answered in German, and had hoped to disguise the extent of his disobedience.

“That language is not permitted,” he tried.

“I will bear the punishment,” she told him. “Repeat your report.”

The Soldier obeyed. After he had done so, the agent with the bow responded anomalously. 

“Is that all?” he asked. “You really don’t have anything else to say about the mission?”

The Soldier was being invited to continue speaking. 

“Who is Stevie?” he asked desperately, before he could stop himself. 

The agents did not respond immediately, but to his surprise, the woman eventually answered in a measured tone. “That’s you, Soldier.”

No. Invalid entry. The Soldier was not permitted any such designation. 

(The Soldier wanted to be Stevie.)

Then she went on. “What else do you remember?”

“ _Nein,_ ” the Soldier gasped. “Nothing, nothing, I don’t—there are no memories, no need for recalibration, _please_ —”

“Why did you stop trying to kill Barnes?” cut in the man with the screwdriver. 

_Barnes._

Not Subject 074.

A boy in a green uniform, smiling down at the Soldier— _Don’t go getting in trouble while I’m gone, Stevie_ —

“Barnes,” he breathed. “Bucky?”

The man with the screwdriver stepped towards him. The Soldier panicked, jerking against the restraints with all his strength. “Bucky!” he howled.

And Bucky came.

Faintly, the Soldier heard footsteps pounding down the hallway, growing rapidly louder until the door burst open and a black blur with a round shield threw itself into the lab, yelling, “Steve!”

Barnes was there. Barnes was _there._ Barnes had not safely escaped after all. This was disastrous. Especially since he dropped his shield as soon as he skidded to a halt. 

“Let him go. Now,” Barnes hissed. 

The man with the bow glanced at a button on the table in front of him, and Barnes leapt forward to press it. The restraints slid back into the Chair.

The Soldier bolted upright, curved an arm around Barnes’ (Bucky’s?) waist, threw him towards the corner nearest the door (most defensible position which also afforded the possibility of escape), snatched up the shield and a wrench from the nearest table, and fell into a crouch between Barnes and the agents.

For a moment, nobody moved. 

“Soldier, explain,” the redhead finally said.

“Mission: terminate Subject 074, alias James Barnes. Mission origin is HYDRA. Any HYDRA personnel may terminate Barnes if the opportunity arises. Mission is. Mission is denied.” The Soldier gripped his wrench tighter. “I won’t let you hurt Bucky.”

“What the—we’re not—” the man with the screwdriver spluttered.

“There has been a misunderstanding, Soldier,” interrupted the redhead. “We are not HYDRA. Our intention in restraining you was to protect Barnes, not to hurt him or you. We’re Barnes’ friends.”

“We just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna kill him as soon as our backs were turned,” added the man with the bow. “You know, because of how hard you were trying to make his face a pancake a couple hours ago.”

The Soldier faltered. This was true. He remembered attempting to complete the mission. Any allies of Barnes would have been wise to restrain him.

“Bucky?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah, pal,” Barnes confirmed, putting a hand carefully on his flesh shoulder. “I’m pretty mad at them right now, don’t get me wrong, but they are my friends. They won’t hurt you.”

Not HYDRA, then. Barnes’ allies. The Soldier dropped the wrench and the shield and stood down. Then he hesitated. Protocol dictated he return to the Chair and submit to recalibration.

He took a step forward.

He did not want to forget.

“Hey,” Barnes said softly from behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“Failure to comply with pre-established protocols warrants both punishment and recalibration,” the Soldier started, holding himself stiffly. “Whatever punishment is selected by Barnes’ allies will be submitted to appropriately. But not—” he swallowed. “Please, Bucky. Don’t make me go back in the Chair. I don’t want to forget again.”

“Oh, Stevie,” Barnes breathed. The Soldier flinched, but at the same time, his flesh hand reached backwards towards Barnes. He didn’t quite know why until Barnes took it in one of his, lacing their fingers together. 

It felt. The Soldier did not have the words to define how it felt. It was touch, but without pain. Irrationally, it calmed the Soldier. 

Barnes’ allies were looking on with varying combinations of confusion and concern, but Barnes (Bucky?) did not appear to notice. “No one is ever going to put you in a chair again, alright? You’re never going to have to forget. Not this time.”

The Soldier frowned, craning his neck to look back at him. “Periodic recalibration is necessary to prevent equipment malfunction, even if no trigger necessitates premature reset,” he reminded Barnes. 

Barnes looked blank. “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he answered, wrinkling his brow. “In the meantime, why don’t we go somewhere a little less crowded?” He glared over the Soldier’s shoulder at his allies.

The Soldier just nodded and allowed Barnes to tug him out the lab door and down the hallways. Perhaps Barnes was planning to punish him immediately. Perhaps not; most often, his masters preferred to execute the punishment immediately before recalibration, to maximize effective reprogramming. Whatever the case, he would be content. For now, somehow, he was being permitted to waive recalibration. He could keep his memories. The Soldier did not understand his new circumstances in the slightest, but he was grateful.

For the first time in a very long time, the Soldier was truly awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Bruce and Natasha both started heading for Stark Tower as soon as the mission was a confirmed success. They took one of Fury’s mysteriously-available SHIELD jets, so they beat everyone else there. (What about all the others, you ask? Ehh. They’ll be explained in the next chap.)
> 
> Let me know what you think! (As always, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated ;) )


	10. Project: Captain HYDRA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JARVIS didn’t say anything, but sets of images began appearing in the blue screen. It seemed like they were just just hand- or typewritten notes that had been scanned into a computer database, accompanied by an occasional black-and-white photograph.
> 
> The very first entry was by Zola.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up for y'all, this chapter has some non-graphic but extensive dealings with torture, brief non-graphic instance of vomiting, and just… so much general angst. As always, take care of yourselves! (Oh, also, a quick, non-pejorative use of the word "queer" by someone who's comfortable using it to reference themself.)
> 
> ...I swear there's comfort coming. Soon. Really.

Bucky was furious.

He couldn’t believe Tony. The helicopter he’d dumped Bucky in had taken almost two hours to get to Stark Tower, and whatever Tony’d done to the controls had kept Bucky from speeding up or changing course. He just had to watch Tony sail off ahead, carrying the unconscious body of his best friend. And when he finally arrived he was greeted with the sound of Stevie screaming.

(God, the _sound—_ )

He pushed his anger down for now, though, because Steve was there, trailing him down the hallway looking like a kicked dog. And Steve’s face when he talked about ‘recalibration’—Bucky hadn’t seen him that kind of scared since he’d caught Steve kissing Arthur Dailey when they were kids, and Steve had sworn he liked girls and he’d stick to them from now on and apologized over and over, before Bucky’d had the chance to tell him he was queer too. 

Ordinary fear, now that he was familiar with, on Steve. He wasn’t actually a total idiot and they’d been fighting a war, after all. But that helplessness? That was different. Steve should never look that way. He should never have to.

So Bucky pretended not to be mad, because he _wasn’t,_ not at Steve, and Steve needed to know Bucky wasn’t gonna hurt him. 

Halfway down the hall, though, Steve buckled and wound up half-sitting, half-kneeling in the middle of the floor. Now it was Bucky’s turn to feel a wash of terror.

“What’s wrong, Ste—” he started, cutting himself off harshly. It didn’t matter, though, because before Steve could answer, JARVIS intervened.

“If I may, Captain Barnes, the Soldier is most likely experiencing the aftereffects of the sedative Sir devised.”

Steve was looking alarmed, sluggishly moving into a defensive posture while he scanned for the source of JARVIS’ voice. “Hey, pal, don’t worry, that’s just the building,” Bucky told him hurriedly. “He’s friendly. JARVIS keeps an eye on everything so nobody can pull a sneak attack on us here.”

Steve relaxed slightly, and then wobbled. Mentally, Bucky called Tony every colourful name he knew. “JARVIS, what’re those aftereffects, exactly?” he asked aloud, as calmly as he could.

“Sir’s formula was intended to render the Soldier unconscious for at least two hours, taking into account his unique physiology and metabolism. In fact, it took the Soldier one hour and fifty-two minutes to awaken. Extrapolating from the given data, Captain Soldier, it is anticipated that you will experience intense drowsiness for up to six more hours until the effects wear off fully. Most likely, the best solution is simply to ‘sleep it off.’”

Bucky sighed, then slung an arm around Steve’s bulk. “All right, you heard the building,” he told him. “Let’s just get to my room and you can have a nice, long nap, until you feel better. That sound ok?”

Steve gave a jerky nod, so Bucky manhandled him into the nearest elevator and hit the button. Current can of worms aside, he’d never been more thankful for Tony’s tendency to overdo things; each of the team members had their own floor in Stark Tower, “just in case,” so Bucky could just bring Steve straight to his. He worried for a moment that the cramped space of the elevator would bother Steve, but he seemed too out of it to notice much.

When they arrived at his apartment, Bucky started to usher Steve towards the bedroom before stopping, unsure. He waved awkwardly to indicate the whole space (a den with two couches, a kitchen, and a little hallway to the side with two doors to the bedroom and bathroom). “You can sleep wherever you want,” he told Steve. “The bedroom’s down that way, but if you’d feel more comfortable you can take the couch or the floor or whatever.” Was that the wrong thing to say? He didn’t want to pressure Steve into using the bed, in case that triggered some kind of trauma like the upright table-thing Tony’d strapped him into (and now he was mad again, great).

Steve just looked confused and kinda sleepy, though. 

“Everything okay, St—” Bucky kicked himself. He didn’t want to set Steve off again by using his name, but he sure as hell wasn’t calling him “Soldier.” Lamely, he finished, “Something wrong?”

Steve looked at him tentatively, with the same feeble fear as before. “Where,” he started, then shook his head. “There is no visible cryogenic pod,” he answered instead. “Pod is a requirement for cryosleep.” He shrank a little.

Geez, in seventy years Stevie hadn’t properly slept at all? Bucky didn’t know exactly what a ‘cryogenic pod’ was, but it didn’t sound good. He took Steve’s non-metal hand gently. 

“Nope, no special pods here,” he assured him. “Here, let me show you what I mean.”

He led Steve into his bedroom (out of all the fantasies he’d had over the years, none of them looked remotely like this) and released his hand, laying down on the far side of the bed. “Look, see? Just stretch out like this and you’ll fall asleep all on your own.”

Carefully, Steve copied him, mirroring his posture so he was flat on his back with his head turned towards Bucky. He looked faintly surprised and pleased, so Bucky called it a win. As soon as his head hit the pillow, his eyes started to droop.

“That’s perfect. Good job, Stevie,” he murmured, and then bit his tongue hard. Steve didn’t flinch this time, though. Instead, his mouth curved into a small smile.

“Thanks, Buck,” he mumbled, and then he was out like a light.

For a minute, Bucky just stared. 

Steve definitely didn’t look much like the kid he’d grown up with, even ignoring the serum’s effects. He was only dressed in a light pair of black pants, and the exposed skin of his torso and left arm were covered in every kind of scar—from burns and stab wounds to surgical slices and track marks. Steve’d always been pale, too, but now he looked like he hadn’t seen the sun for more than a couple minutes of the last seven decades (which, maybe, was true). The metal parts were the worst, though. 

His right arm was completely gone, replaced with a prosthetic that continued past the shoulder to merge seamlessly with the silver HYDRA insignia that engulfed most of his chest. The top two tentacles of the octopus curved up Steve’s neck, like a pair of snakes slithering over his shaved scalp all the way into his temples, and every piece of metal was surrounded by swollen, angry scar tissue. 

Bucky felt sick, seeing it all. That Steve’d survived, let alone with any shred of his mind intact, was nothing shy of miraculous. And yet he was still in there, somewhere. He’d recognized Bucky. He’d begged not to forget.

Right. “JARVIS, you said he should sleep for just about six hours, yeah?”

“That’s correct, Captain Barnes. The sedative should also ensure his sleep remains deep and dreamless.”

That was a relief, at least. “If I’m not back by the time he starts waking up, let me know straight away, alright? Actually, no, just tell me if anything changes at all.”

“Understood, Captain. Also, Agent Romanoff has instructed me to tell you they have moved from the workshop to the common floor, if you desire to rejoin them. Dr. Banner has retired to his reinforced rooms, but should you require his aid, I will notify him as soon as possible.”

Bucky smiled grimly. “Thanks, JARVIS.” Carefully, he slid off the bed, folding his side of the blankets over so they covered Steve like a half-burrito. “Be back soon, Stevie,” he whispered.

First, though, he had some hell to raise.

\+ + +

“What the goddamn hell were you thinking?” Bucky demanded, striding into the common floor living space.

“I don’t know about these two, but I was thinking we should maybe take a few precautions with the HYDRA assassin who’d already nearly killed you,” Tony snapped back without missing a beat.

“And when he was screaming _my name_ , you all thought standing around watching was still the best course of action? I mean,” he took a breath, “thanks for telling me what button to press and all, Clint, but why the hell wouldn’t you just press it yourself?”

It was nice that Clint was finally back from his mission (just in time to have missed all the action, of course), but Bucky wasn’t an idiot, and Clint was a super-spy. He’d very obviously indicated what Bucky needed to do to release Steve. 

“Like Tony said, murderous assassin,” Clint shrugged. “Tony, Nat and I were already the enemy by default, and you were apparently an ally in his mind, so when we heard you coming, I figured it would be best to let you do the actual saving. That way you’d have half-decent odds of being able to talk him down afterwards. Of course,” he added, grinning a bit, “I don’t think any of us were expecting him to throw down like a mama bear for you right off the bat. Honestly, that was pretty epic.”

“Hold up,” Tony interrupted. He had an odd glint in his eye that made Bucky uneasy. “You actually helped the Soldier escape, Barton? Why the hell does everyone seem to think that was a good idea? He is a highly trained death machine that belongs to HYDRA. Where is he now, by the way? Did you just drop him off at the nearest charging station so you could yell at us, Barnes?”

Bucky noted dimly that his hands were shaking. “He’s in my quarters, actually, being monitored by JARVIS while he sleeps off the effects of the tranquilizer you shot him up with, Stark,” he ground out. “And just in case you weren’t paying attention, that ‘death machine’ is my friend, not to mention a highly decorated _war hero_ who’s been tortured and held prisoner for the last _seventy years_.”

“Yeah, no, see, I don’t buy that whole ‘tragic brainwashed Nazi’ act. I mean, don’t you think it’s a little convenient that he suddenly starts ‘remembering’ you as soon as you have a little backup to even the odds? God. Open your eyes, Barnes. He’s just playing on your emotions until he can get back the upper hand, if he’s even Steve Rogers at all and not some test-tube clone—” 

Bucky clicked out of sync with the world for a moment. His fingernails bit into his palms, almost hard enough to break the skin, grounding him back in reality. “What is wrong with you, Tony,” he growled.

“I’m just saying, why should you be so special?” Tony was yelling now. “He’s already killed at least one of his old buddies without so much as batting an eye. I don’t care what they did to him, Bucky, you don’t just—” he stopped, and continued more quietly. “You don’t do that kind of thing unless you’ve really switched sides.”

Bucky felt cold, suddenly. “What are you talking about?”

Tony turned away, pulling a sharpie from his pocket and starting to doodle an equation right on the glass coffee table. “The Soldier killed my parents,” he said after a moment. He would’ve sounded perfectly matter-of-fact, too, if it wasn’t for the faint tremor of his voice. “I saw the footage while I was hacking into SHIELD. HYDRA—or SHIELD, both, whatever—they caught the whole thing on tape, and covered it up. The Soldier sent their car off the road. He beat my dad’s head in and strangled my mother, and he _never hesitated,_ Barnes.”

Howard.

Steve had killed Howard. And his wife. Steve had killed Tony’s parents.

Seventy years ago, Bucky would’ve been laughing. Because—Steve would never. The idea made as much sense as a walrus doing the waltz.

“Did you look through the other files on the Winter Soldier?” Natasha asked, scrolling through her phone. She sounded dangerously neutral. Clint peered over her shoulder and blanched, resting a hand against her upper back.

“No,” Tony told her, a little defensive. “I rushed through most of the uploads, since I was trying to finish in time to save Bucky from his killer BFF. If he was even still alive, because maybe you’ll remember, Barnes, the last we heard from you, you were completely failing to get your pal to stop attacking, and then your comm shorted out and we all just had to assume the worst.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said helplessly.

“Before we jump to any conclusions,” Natasha interjected, “I think we should maybe look at the rest of the files. JARVIS, would you pull them up onscreen, in chronological order?”

A blue hologram appeared in the middle of the room, but for a moment it stayed blank. “Captain Barnes,” JARVIS said, sounding almost hesitant. “Some of these files are quite graphic. May I suggest you step out while they are displayed?”

Bucky glanced at the others. Natasha still looked blank, but Clint was frowning and Tony’s eyebrows were about to fly off his face. 

It didn’t matter. “I’m staying,” he replied flatly. 

JARVIS didn’t say anything, but sets of images began appearing in the blue screen. It seemed like they were just hand- or typewritten notes that had been scanned into a computer database, accompanied by an occasional black-and-white photograph.

The very first entry was by Zola. 

JARVIS translated for them from the German, reading aloud, “My good fortune is beyond belief. My fellow HYDRA operatives have discovered Captain America himself, abandoned by his comrades at the base of a cliffside in the Alps. He is damaged, but alive. I myself have been captured by the Americans, but thus far our spy network has allowed us to remain in contact. They are instructed to break Steven Rogers to our authority, using whatever means are necessary so that when I return, he will be compliant. Project: Captain HYDRA has begun.”

What followed were lists, written up by HYDRA lackeys, of all the ways Steve was tortured before Zola became part of Operation Paperclip. Waterboarding and electrocution were popular, but only the beginning. Steve’s right arm had been obliterated in the fall, so Zola sent instructions to replace it with the metal one he had now. He was strapped down for the surgery and given no anaesthetic. They tattooed an octopus across his chest, where now there was a metal implant, and redid it every other week to keep it sore and inflamed. They beat him, cut him, burned him, and Bucky was expecting it but it still tore a new hole somewhere inside, with every entry JARVIS read. Somehow, though, all of them ended the same way: “failure to comply.” Steve wasn’t breaking.

Then Zola came back.

Moments later, Bucky was running for the washroom.

As he heaved into the toilet, he closed his eyes, but the images just burned brighter. Steve, with needles sticking out of him, writhing away from a scalpel. Steve, flayed open like a slab of meat. Page after page of clinical notes detailing all the ways Zola had brutalized him. Bucky had thought he’d had it bad, when he’d been captured, but this—there weren’t words.

He laid his head against the cool porcelain seat when he was done. It was nasty, but he really didn’t care. He closed his eyes and realized his cheeks were drenched with tears. Of all the people for Zola to capture, it had to have been Stevie. 

“It shoulda been me,” he whispered to himself.

“No, it really shouldn’t have,” Natasha said from behind him. He startled and turned around. He hadn’t bothered to lock the door, but he hadn’t heard her come in, either. “Bucky, no one deserves to have that happen to them,” she went on, folding her arms. “Not Steve, and not you. Wishing you could have taken his place won’t make any more of a difference than wishing it hadn’t happened at all, so stop.” 

She crouched down on the floor of the bathroom so their eyes were level, waiting until he looked at her. “Look, I wanted to go through these files so we could get a better idea of how to help Steve recover,” she started.

“Help Steve—so you don’t agree with Tony? You still think it’s worth trying to save him?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked away. “I know what it’s like to have choice taken from you,” she said quietly. “Tony wants it to be simple, but the truth is, sometimes your enemy is the one that needs saving the most. But that doesn’t mean you should have to see this, Barnes. If you want, you can go sit with Steve in your apartment until he wakes up, and I’ll fill you in later on the important details.”

God, Bucky was grateful for the offer. He was pretty sure there was nothing he wanted less than to look at a single one of those files ever again. But—“No,” Bucky told her. “Natasha, I need to see them.” 

He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it was a last-ditch effort to stick by Steve to the end of the line, even after he’d let him fall. Maybe some stupid part of him wanted to at least keep Steve from suffering alone. He had a sneaking suspicion that the whole thing boiled down to the self-destructive complex Natasha was always ragging on him about. Whatever it was, Nat seemed to get it, because she just looked at him for a moment longer before she rose abruptly and offered a hand to help him up.

He took it, and then spent a minute washing up at the sink before following her back out to the living room. He was still a sweaty, puffy mess, but he figured no one would care too much. 

He slumped down into one of the chairs and nodded sharply. “JARVIS, keep it going,” he ordered.

“Wait,” Tony interjected. “I just realized—JARVIS, purge these files from the internet. Make sure there isn’t a single copy of anything pertaining to the Winter Soldier anywhere but on my personal server.” He looked away when Bucky glanced over at him, muttering, “Nobody else needs to have access to this.”

“Already done, Sir,” JARVIS responded.

And with that, they plunged back into Steve’s personal hell.

Bucky gritted his teeth and kept looking as Zola invented countless new ways to push Steve past any human breaking point. Sometimes there were videos; grainy, black-and-white footage that made Bucky regret not taking Natasha’s offer, but they also made it crystal clear just how little ground Steve was giving.

In his notes, Zola just wrote “failure to comply” after every session. The videos showed him asking Steve, over and over again, as he tortured him in endlessly creative ways, “What is your designation, soldier?” Every time, Steve answered, “Captain Steven Grant Rogers, US Army”—or at any rate he’d say as much as he could get out before Zola silenced him. Each video ended with Zola intoning, “Your designation is Asset. You are the property of HYDRA.” Sometimes, though, before the clip ended, you could hear Steve repeating his own name in a ragged whisper.

Steve still wasn’t breaking.

Bucky didn’t know if he was proud or furious. Either way, it didn’t matter. That was just Steve—he never could back down one bit from any stupid, unwinnable fight.

The last piece of footage ended differently. Zola was re-fastening Steve’s hands in the manacles embedded in the wall, repeating his now-familiar phrase, when Steve talked back. 

“I’m not HYDRA’s property,” he said clearly, despite the blood running down his arms and the feverish splotches on his cheeks. “I’m not anyone’s property, and I’m never going to be your asset. You might as well kill me now, pal, because I’m. Not. Yours.”

“Whoa,” Clint breathed. 

Yeah. That was Steve, all right. 

Of course, as per usual with Steve’s bullheaded tactics, things backfired pretty spectacularly.

“Project: Captain HYDRA has reached an impasse,” JARVIS translated from the next set of notes. “The Asset consistently fails to submit to its overseers, and reprogramming efforts are proving to be ineffective. I need a way to ensure total cooperation, to claim the Super-Soldier for HYDRA once and for all. My new invention is waiting for a test subject, but I have yet to devise an interface that will allow it to be implemented on the Asset. This laxness must be immediately rectified.”

A series of diagrams came up, displaying what looked like the blueprints for some kind of electronic system. It didn’t make any sense to Bucky, but when he glanced over Tony was scanning them furiously, looking progressively sicker as they went on.

“If there’s a video of this, JARVIS, skip it,” Natasha whispered, almost quietly enough that Bucky didn’t pick it up even with his enhanced hearing. The screen flickered ever-so-slightly in response, but Bucky didn’t have it in him to protest. The images that followed were plenty.

A photograph of an unconscious Steve came onscreen, shirtless, the metal arm and now-faded HYDRA tattoo on full display. Below it, JARVIS translated Zola’s handwriting. “Thus far, the Asset has rejected all attempts at reform. I suspect Erskine’s formula is interfering with my efforts somehow. This is intolerable. I will not allow it. Admittedly, the procedure I am about to initiate is a dangerous one, and there is a high chance it will damage the Asset, even potentially beyond repair. However, I am confident that the prospective benefits outweigh the risks. If all goes well, Steven Rogers will soon be completely erased, and Captain HYDRA will at last be ours.”

The next photograph was of Steve, again unconscious and shirtless, but this time with the metal implants he had now. They looked shinier, and instead of old scar tissue they were surrounded by oozing, bloody flesh, but they were the same. There were notes beneath this one, too, but before JARVIS could read them out Tony interrupted.

“Stop,” he said, and Bucky looked at him, startled. “Just—I just need a moment. I’m sorry. It’s stupid, if anyone should—” he gestured at Bucky, who realized suddenly his cheeks were wet again. How long had he been crying? “—but I just…”

“You know, you don’t have to stay, either, Tony,” Natasha said gently. Clint’s arm was around her shoulder, now, but she still looked and sounded perfectly poised.

Tony just shook his head mutely. “No,” he bit out after a moment. “I’m good. JARVIS, play it.”

“The procedure was a complete success,” JARVIS read out promptly. “With the Asset’s accelerated rate of healing, we should be able to begin manual recalibration within the week. This is the dawn of a new age for HYDRA.”

Another video came up, showing Steve gagged and strapped into what looked vaguely like a dentist’s chair, but with more pointy metal bits. Wire leads ran between the new implants and various outcroppings on the chair, and Steve sat very still, wincing whenever one of them was jostled. 

Zola walked into view, and Steve glared.

“Ach, _mein haustier,”_ Zola chuckled, unfazed. “I would tell you to wipe that look off your face, but I am about to do it for you.” He sat down in front of a switchboard beside the chair, and paused. “Say goodbye, Captain America,” he murmured, and flicked a switch.

Steve’s back arced and he screamed through the gag. His eyes went wide, then squeezed shut. Zola pressed a couple more buttons on the board and Steve went mute, his mouth open wide and arms jerking sporadically against the restraints. 

Bucky couldn’t look anymore. He put his head in his hands and tried to remember how to breathe. 

Suddenly, ferociously, he found himself hating Erskine. If that stupid scientist hadn’t given Steve his serum, Zola would never have gotten his filthy hands on Stevie to begin with. Yeah, Bucky himself would’ve died in Zola’s hands, or worse, if Steve hadn’t saved him, but so what? Bucky didn’t even care that Steve would've caught his death of pneumonia within a couple years, without Bucky there to keep him going through the winter. It would still have been better. At least he would’ve been safe from—from _this._

“Your designation is Asset. You are the property of HYDRA,” Zola said at last. Bucky looked up to see Steve glassy-eyed and still, lying back in the chair. “Soldier, what is your designation?”

Without moving, Steve answered slowly, “Designation: Asset. Property of HYDRA.”

Zola smiled, and Bucky sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I didn’t actually forget about Sam or Coulson or Fury or Hill! There’s just too much going on in this chapter for them to make a cameo. 
> 
> Annnnnd I promise the next three chapters are much fluffier. Sorry.
> 
> Comments/kudos appreciated!


	11. Change My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tentatively, Bucky reached out, and when Steve didn’t skitter away he put an arm around his little punk’s shoulders, patting a hand against the Soldier’s metal joints. “Yeah, Stevie. That’s you, all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some of that long-awaited comfort! I promised you fluff, and... well, I don't know if this counts exactly, but it's definitely _less angsty,_ so. Enjoy!!

The rest of the files were mostly technical jargon about the most efficient settings for wiping Steve’s brain, how to ensure certain memories were preserved while others were erased, and how to avoid triggering “relapses.” Zola’s original plan seemed to be to use Steve as a HYDRA general, keeping chunks of his personality and just swapping his loyalties around, but he couldn’t get it to work. The mind-wiper never managed to erase anything permanently, and the more memories they let Steve keep, the quicker the other ones came back and the sooner he started fighting them. 

Eventually Zola gave up, scrapping his “Captain HYDRA” idea and renaming it “Project: Winter Soldier.” After that, Steve turned into HYDRA’s personal assassin, who got frozen solid in a “cryopod” to keep him from aging between missions. The rest of the files were all on who Steve killed when, and how much _recalibration_ he needed to be coerced into doing it. 

Bucky left after the first half-dozen of those. 

He tried waiting in the apartment for Steve to wake up, but he found he couldn’t stand sitting around (let alone staring at Steve, scarred up and deathly still, while the images of what Zola did were still playing behind Bucky’s eyes). It had only been about an hour and a half out of the six JARVIS had promised Steve’d sleep for, so he checked in with the building and made sure it’d phone his cell if anything changed, then went out for a run.

Halfway through the park closest to the tower, his phone buzzed.

Before it could ring twice, it was up against his ear. “What’s wrong? Is Steve okay?” he demanded.

There was a pause. “I was kinda thinking you would tell me that,” said the voice on the other end.

“Sam!” Bucky blinked. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. What’s up? Uh—” he cringed. In all the hullabaloo, Sam had slipped his mind entirely. “Thanks again for all your help today. We couldn’t have done it without you,” he tried.

“Don’t sweat it, Barnes,” Sam huffed a laugh. “So what’s going on? Fury and Hill are both pretty pissed at Stark for flying off in one of their helicopters. They’ve been trying to get a hold of one of y’all for the last three hours.”

“Tony must’ve gotten JARVIS to block your calls, I guess.” Bucky found a nearby bench and sat down, bringing his free hand up to rub at his temple. 

“JARVIS?” Sam interrupted.

“Yeah, that’s the building’s name,” explained Bucky distractedly. “We’re at Stark Tower. Sorry about the helicopter.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Sam sounded amused. “I’m just calling to make sure you guys are all still alive. Fury and Hill finally let me head home half an hour ago, so fair warning, I’m pretty sure Fury’s gonna come looking in a helicopter of his own pretty soon.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. “Hey,” Sam added, concern lacing his voice. “ _Are_ you okay, Barnes?”

“I—yeah,” Bucky started. “Yeah, don’t worry about me. Or Tony, or Bruce or Natasha. We’re all—we’re fine.”

“Uh-huh. But…?”

“Dammit, Sam, _Steve,_ ” Bucky burst out. Great, now he was crying again. In public. 

(He’d read all about the new ideas on letting men have feelings other than ‘anger’ and ‘power,’ but he still kind of hated himself for showing everyone and their uncle how weak he was. Maybe he should punch something. 

He didn’t want to punch something. He wanted Stevie.)

He covered his face with one hand. “He’s still in there, somehow, but it’d almost be better if he wasn’t. What they did to him, Sam… We looked through the files HYDRA had stored on SHIELD’s servers. It’s not—I don’t know how he survived. I don’t know how anyone could have survived that.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “And… I’m sorry, Barnes, but you’re sure he did?”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed hollowly. “He did.” He scrubbed at his face and leaned back, blinking up at the smoggy blue sky. “I didn’t save him,” he said suddenly. “I told him I’d be there till the end of the line, and I wasn’t. He risked everything to save me from Zola, Sam, and I never even tried to do the same for him.”

“Right,” said Sam skeptically. “And how, exactly, do you think that would’ve worked? ’Cause unless the history books are way off base, everyone was sure Rogers died when he fell from that train. And even if you thought he was still alive, or tried to go back for his body, who would’ve stopped Schmidt from nuking the States while you were looking for Steve, and then bombing wherever else he decided to go next? Barnes, you couldn’t have stopped Steve from falling. You couldn’t have known he was alive, and you couldn’t have gone back for him either way. Whatever happened to him, that wasn’t on you. That was all HYDRA.”

Bucky said nothing. Oddly enough, none of that made him feel any better.

Sam sighed. “Look, Barnes. We all want to feel like we have some kind of control over the crap that happens to us. The truth is, for the most part, we really don’t, and anyway, it doesn’t matter that much after the fact. There’s nothing you can change about the past. All you can do, if it really is still the Steve you remember, is try and help him heal.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. “Yeah, I know.” He heaved a breath. “Sorry again for dusting out on you like that. I’ll let Tony know he needs to call Fury. Thank you,” he added, more sincerely. “You really didn’t have to do any of that stuff today, but I mean,” he shrugged, “thanks to you we probably saved the world. Sorry for dragging you into our mess.”

“Hey, if I can help save the world, I will happily get dragged into any kind of mess,” Sam answered lightly. “Listen, man, call me anytime, alright? If you need my help again, if you want to talk, whatever. My door’s always open.”

“Right,” Bucky shifted. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

Sam sighed faintly, but didn’t push it. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Bucky hung up and stood, heading back to the tower instead of finishing his run. It was only making him antsier, anyways.

When Bucky finally got in the elevator, he realized he really wanted a drink. He’d gotten out of the habit lately, mostly because it cost a lot of money to buy as much alcohol as he needed if he wanted to feel it, but this seemed like a good time to make an exception. 

He told himself he wasn’t stalling.

“JARVIS, can you bring me up to Tony’s private bar?” he requested. 

JARVIS didn’t answer, but the elevator doors slid closed and they lurched smoothly upward. (It was still unnerving to Bucky, riding an elevator that started and stopped on its own, when all his life there’d been a girl in every cab running the lift with an expert touch and a trained, flawless smile. Sometimes he caught himself thinking there was an elevator operator in the corner after all, and she was just invisible in this new century. Maybe she was a ghost.)

Bucky stepped out when the elevator stopped, and just about turned right back around. Unfortunately, Tony noticed him at the same time, and waved Bucky over to where he was slumped on a barstool in the otherwise empty room. “Hey, Ca—Bucky,” he greeted tiredly. “Hang on, let me pour you a glass of the good stuff.”

Reluctantly, Bucky slouched over. He wasn’t all that eager to get chummy with Tony, after what he’d said. Still, Stark was quick to slide behind the counter and pour a glass full of something clear, sliding it over and coming back to sit. 

“What is this? Vodka?” Bucky asked.

“Stronger. Bruce and I have been working on something. It should have at least a little more of an impact on you than the usual stuff, though with your hellish metabolism who’s to say for sure, but you’ll have to let me know if it’s any good.” Tony sipped at his own drink.

Bucky took a swig and coughed. Whatever the stuff was, it tasted like soap and burned like acid. “This is disgusting.” 

Tony shrugged. “Give it a second, maybe it’ll win you over.”

Bucky eyed him skeptically, but took another sip. 

For a moment, they sat in silence. 

“I owe you an apology,” Tony said abruptly.

Bucky stared. Tony’s eyes were fixed on the table between them, and he was uncharacteristically still. “I… Look, Barnes, we both know this kind of thing doesn’t exactly come naturally to me, but I shouldn’t—I should never have said what I did about Rogers.” Tony started tracing the edge of his glass with a finger, looking distant. “I just, I thought I knew what torture meant. After Afghanistan. I thought, y’know, if they couldn’t break me enough to design one single weapon, how could anyone change enough to…” he waved a hand.

“It was stupid. _I_ was stupid, inexcusably so. And to be clear, I’m not asking for your forgiveness here, because after what we just saw—” he shook his head, still avoiding Bucky’s eyes. “I don’t think I deserve it. I figured nothing he went through could’ve been, whatever, _that bad,_ but even before Zola came—I would’ve broken. I know I would have, I would be doing whatever they told me to, and Rogers didn’t even crack. And what they ended up doing to him…” Tony rubbed his face, then suddenly tossed back the rest of his drink. “So,” he announced, setting it down and looking directly at Bucky. “To recap: I’m damn sorry, I wouldn’t blame you if you want nothing to do with me, and so help me, I am going to burn whatever’s left of HYDRA to the ground myself. Although you’re welcome to join in if you want.”

To buy himself a second, Bucky took another sip of what he was starting to suspect was actually rubbing alcohol. “You’re sorry,” he repeated, once he was done choking. “You don’t hate Steve for killing your parents?” That wasn’t the kind of thing you just got over. 

Tony stood, leaning over the counter to grab another bottle of whiskey. He went to pour it into his glass, then paused and took a swig from the bottle instead. “I kind of _want_ to hate him, but no. After seeing those files, I can’t. Especially because I got JARVIS to skip ahead to the entry on my parents, and—well, turns out it wasn’t as straightforward as the first video made it look. It actually took three tries to get him to… finish the job, because every time he saw Dad’s face, he wound up hesitating. They had to—it took a lot to make him do it.”

Bucky didn’t want to know what that meant.

“Anyway, my point is, I don’t hate Captain Rogers. I _do_ really hate HYDRA. And now I’m done, and I’m gonna take my whiskey and let you drink in peace. Drink the whole bar, if you want. My treat,” Tony rambled. “Oh, and of course you’re welcome to stay in the tower, I’ll keep out of your way, or if you want to leave I can help set you two up comfortably somewhere, although it’s probably easiest to keep HYDRA from snatching Rogers if you stay here. But of course I’ll understand if you’d rather go. Are you thinking you want to stay in New York, or head to Washington, maybe?” 

“Tony,” Bucky finally interrupted. He didn’t really know where to go from there, though, so instead he just grabbed the bottle of clear stuff that was still sitting on the counter and filled Tony’s glass with it.

A half-grin split across Tony’s face. “Oh, thank God. I mean, I take it this means we’re done having feelings?”

“Very,” Bucky affirmed, taking another gulp of rubbing alcohol. 

Tony settled back and raised his glass in a toast. “Damn every last HYDRA bastard.”

Bucky clinked his cup against Tony’s. “Amen to that.”

They both drank at the same time. Tony promptly spat his all over the floor. “Nope, that’s gross. Not happening,” Tony spluttered. 

“Aw, c’mon, Stark. It grows on you.”

“Bucky, I am 90% sure there was a mistake somewhere and this is actually paint remover. Give me yours, before your esophagus dissolves completely.”

Bucky clutched his glass closer, baring his teeth. “Make me.”

“Seriously? Geez, why are you so scary, you’re a hundred years old. Fine, drink it, see if I care. Hope you enjoy your ulcers, is all I’m saying.”

\+ + +

A few hours later, Bucky was sitting next to Steve on the bed. He’d found book eight of the original _Tom Swift_ series lying on the shelf in the living room, and was flipping through it restlessly while he waited for Steve to wake up.

Tony had headed upstairs, slightly tipsy, to “do science” with Bruce, who’d barely emerged from his Hulk-cave long enough to pat Bucky on the shoulder before Tony swept him away. Natasha and Clint, though, were playing some kind of dice game quietly in the living room, because nobody wanted to risk leaving Bucky alone with a disoriented Soldier. Bucky hated it, but he didn’t protest; they didn’t have a clue what Steve would remember when he woke, and Bucky was kinda glad to have backup just in case Steve tried to kill him again.

Speaking of which. Steve stirred beside him, and Bucky set his book aside, tensing. 

“Hey, there. You awake?” he asked quietly.

Steve went from mostly-asleep to high alert in a flash, sitting bolt upright in the bed. His eyes were wide and darted around, visibly cataloging his surroundings, but his face was very blank. When he saw who was lying next to him, he stopped.

“Bucky?” he breathed.

Bucky sagged a bit in relief. “Yeah, pal,” he murmured back. “You remember me?”

Crap, that was the wrong thing to say. Steve shrank back, something behind his eyes shuttering. “Affirmative. Mission target is Subject zero-seven-four, alias James Barnes,” he recited, slipping into German. Bucky wasn't fluent, but he knew enough to understand what Steve was saying. “Mission: locate and eliminate the target.”

“Right,” Bucky managed. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to shake off the flashback that came on with ‘Subject 074.’ “You gonna eliminate me now, then?”

“No,” Steve blurted in English. That was enough to jolt Bucky back to the present, more or less, and he looked at Steve. Naked panic shone out of his face for half a second before the blank look returned, and Bucky could’ve kicked himself.

“Hey, hey, St—hey, pal,” he soothed, wanting to reach out but knowing it would only spook Steve more. “Don’t be scared, okay? You’re safe here, I swear. No matter what you say, what you remember, no one here’s going to—to punish you, or take your memories away. Alright? I won’t let that happen. Not ever again,” he vowed.

Steve stared at him, inscrutable. “Barnes is not your alias,” he said suddenly. “You aren’t the Subject. Your name is Bucky. Isn’t it?”

Bucky nodded, throat tight. When he could squeeze a word out, he clarified, “People call me Bucky. James Barnes is my name, though.”

Steve looked satisfied. “Then the mission cannot be carried out. Zero-seven-four has not been located. Only Bucky.”

A laugh burst out of Bucky before he could stop it. “Good to know not even HYDRA could beat that little punk out of you,” he muttered, aiming to be too quiet for Steve to hear. Of course, he remembered belatedly, he wasn’t the only super-soldier around anymore. “Sorry, never mind,” he hurried to add, but Steve seemed more bemused than upset. 

“Natasha and Clint are outside,” Bucky changed the subject. “I dunno if you remember them, but they were with Tony when you first woke up. _Do_ you remember that?” He had the sense that Steve wouldn’t tell him anything if he didn’t ask a direct question, and he really wasn’t sure if Steve would have any memory of what happened earlier. Tony’s sedatives probably wouldn’t have helped anything, even if Steve’s brain wasn’t already a soupy mess.

Steve nodded, though. “I was in the Chair.” There was a question in his voice, but Bucky wasn’t sure what answer he was looking for.

“Yeah,” he said anyway. “That won’t happen again, though, I swear, St—I promise you. And they weren’t trying to hurt you, they were just being… really stupid schmucks. Still, they’re my friends, and from now on they’re going to help me keep you safe. Does that sound okay?”

Honestly, it didn’t really sound all that okay to Bucky, but Steve didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he tilted his head. He looked a bit confused, but that was all.

“Alright,” Bucky blew out a breath. “Alright, then. Do you want to go out and meet them properly?”

Steve stood up without another word, waiting for Bucky to follow suit and lead the way out. As Bucky reached for the door handle, though, he made a tiny abortive gesture that Bucky only caught because he was watching for it. He stepped back and turned to Steve. “What’s wrong, pal?” he asked softly.

“Will you—will they—” Steve hunched his shoulders, looking very small. “Is it time for recalibration now?”

“No!” Bucky exclaimed. “Crap, Steve—dammit, I mean—no, listen to me. That will never happen to you again, alright? Never. I won’t let anyone do that to you. From now on, whatever you remember, whatever you think, that’s yours. No more recalibration. No one’s gonna take that from you, I swear it.”

Steve blinked, processing that. After a minute, he looked back at Bucky. “Steve?”

His face had lost the robotic blankness from earlier. More than anything, he looked hopeful. 

“Yeah,” Bucky started, watching him carefully. “If you want, I mean, you used to be called Steve. We can call you that again, or something else if you’d rather—”

“Yes,” Steve cut him off. He froze, but when Bucky just nodded at him to go on, he straightened a bit. “I… That’s who Stevie is, isn’t it? I am. The red-haired agent said so.” He squared his shoulders, the faintest hint of defiance sparking in his eyes. 

God, Steve was unbreakable, wasn’t he? 

Tentatively, Bucky reached out, and when Steve didn’t skitter away he put an arm around his little punk’s shoulders, patting a hand against the Soldier’s metal joints. “Yeah, Stevie. That’s you, all right.” 

Steve held stiff for a moment longer before melting into him, and Bucky wrapped him in a proper hug, which he didn’t seem to remember how to return. Steve clutched at his shirt like a lifeline, though, and Bucky couldn’t care less that the metal hand was pinching his skin.

After seventy years, after a lifetime of too much space between their bodies, after being sure he’d lost Steve for good, after both of them had lost everything to the ice and the distance, they finally had each other back.

They wound up standing like that for a good, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! And just in case you're interested, a fun bit of trivia:
> 
> The book Bucky finds in his apartment was indeed carefully selected by Tony for his enjoyment. The _Tom Swift_ books were a series of adventure stories directed at preteen boys, a lot like _the Hardy Boys_ or _Nancy Drew._ The eighth book of the original Tom Swift series came out in 1911, and thus would have been a familiar piece of childhood pleasure for the super-soldiers. Very sweet and thoughtful of Tony to put it there.
> 
> Oh, also, the title of Book Eight is _[Tom Swift in the Caves of Ice, Or, The Wreck of the Airship.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Swift_in_the_Caves_of_Ice)_
> 
> As always, comments/kudos = much love <3


	12. Teatime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gesticulated. “We did what we came for, burned HYDRA, mission accomplished, I figured we could head home.”
> 
> “You took my helicopter,” Fury growled.
> 
> “In my defense, I was planning to return that. Eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! 100 kudos and counting!!! Thank you all for overwhelming love and support <3 <3 <3

Eventually, Bucky remembered to throw a t-shirt on Steve (his closets were mysteriously stocked with clothes in his size, but Tony’s style), and herded him out of the bedroom to introduce him to Clint and Natasha. Steve tensed up for a second when Bucky used his name in front of the other two, but relaxed again when no one else reacted. “Nice to meet you, Steve,” was all Natasha said, and Clint nodded before suggesting they grab something to eat. 

They took the elevator down to the common floor’s kitchen—Bucky noticed Steve seemed a lot antsier in the tight space this time around, although it was hard to say whether that was thanks to Natasha and Clint’s presence or just because he wasn’t sedated anymore—and were promptly faced with a new problem.

“Steve, when was the last time you had solid food?” Natasha asked when Clint started pulling out ingredients. They all froze, Steve looking like a deer in the headlights. “I’m sorry,” Natasha twisted her mouth self-deprecatingly and rephrased, “Steve, do you remember if you’ve eaten solid food before?”

Slowly, Steve shook his head, still tense. 

“JARVIS, can you call Bruce down to the kitchen, please?” Clint called casually. He swung himself up onto the refrigerator and dangled by his knees. “Bruce is a real smart guy,” he added, smirking at Steve, “so I figure we’d better ask him to help figure out what kind of food you’d like until you get used to Bucky’s cooking.”

Steve didn’t relax, but Bucky let out a breath. “Bruce is another friend,” he added, trying for a smile when Steve turned to look at him. “Him, I’d trust with my life, no question.”

Clint made a mock-offended face from behind Steve’s back, but didn’t say anything. God, Bucky was grateful these two were his friends. He knew without asking that both of them got why he was plugging for Bruce specially; after all, Bruce was the only one who hadn’t been there when Steve first woke up. He’d have an easier time earning Steve’s confidence than any of the others.

(Usually, Bucky figured, he’d be more cut up about his best friend not trusting Nat and Clint, but given the Chair incident—well. He might be glad to have them, but he was still pretty steamed.)

While they waited for Bruce to get downstairs, Clint chattered about the virtues of chocolate ice cream over vanilla. Bucky happened to like vanilla and he knew for a fact that Natasha would murder three men for a bucket of raspberry gelato, but no one said anything, mainly because Steve was looking a little less freaked out and more transfixed by the sight of a man hanging upside-down from a refrigerator while discussing ice cream flavours.

Clint could have that effect.

Finally the elevator doors slid open and Bruce tripped out. Tony was hot on his heels with a holoscreen in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

“Hey, JARVIS told me you could use a little help,” Bruce said, tucking a stylus behind his ear. He waved a little at Steve. “Hi, there. You must be…?” 

Steve went stiff and looked at Bucky helplessly. 

“Bruce, this is Steve,” Bucky stepped in, making sure to speak slowly and watching Steve for any sign he wasn’t okay with being introduced. Steve turned wide eyes on the newcomers, but didn’t otherwise react, which Bucky optimistically decided was probably a good sign. “Steve, this is Bruce, and that’s Tony.” Tony raised the coffee mug in salute.

“It’s nice to meet you, Steve,” Bruce said politely. After another moment, Steve relaxed again.

“We think Steve hasn’t had solid food in quite a while,” Natasha interposed. “Bruce, do you have any ideas around what he should have for dinner?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You guys know I’m not that kind—”

“Just,” Tony cut him off, “ah, give it your best guess, Jolly Green?”

Bruce sighed, but adjusted his glasses and gave Steve a smile. “Well,” he edged more fully into the kitchen, “Just at a glance I’d say you aren’t too malnourished, so you’ve probably been getting a steady supply of nutrients, right, Steve?”

Steve looked startled. “Affirmative,” he replied.

“Can you tell me how you were taking those in, if you weren’t eating solid foods?”

Steve shifted. “Prior to missions, nutrition shakes are typically administered, to ensure proper equipment functioning.” 

“Right,” Bruce said slowly. He took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Right. Uh, well, in that case, I’d probably recommend sticking to a full liquid diet for about five or six days before you start eating heavier foods. Although, if your metabolism is anything like Bucky’s, it’ll be hard to get enough fuel just from liquids…” 

Tony shoved his holoscreen in front of Bruce, who started tapping in some kind of data without missing a beat, muttering about calories. Bucky rubbed his hands together, drawing Steve’s attention.

“Clam chowder for supper, then, pal,” he decided, smiling at Steve. It still felt a little forced, but less than before. (God, he knew it was incredibly selfish, but just the fact that Steve was here—alive, breathing, looking back at him—it was a miracle. And even though it would’ve been better for Steve to have died falling from that train, Bucky was so damn glad he hadn’t.)

“Tomato base or cream?”

\+ + +

They were halfway through dinner, everyone but Clint sitting at the table like civilized people, when a small holographic _Stark Industries_ logo popped up above the kitchen counter. Clint squeaked and fell off the edge as it materialized next to him, which just served him right. A moment later, JARVIS’ voice filled the room.

“My apologies for interrupting, but I thought it prudent to inform you of Director Fury’s imminent arrival.” 

Tony swore. “What? JARVIS, why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?”

“Because you instructed me to block all calls from SHIELD, and—if I may quote you, Sir—‘anyone even remotely connected to my latest world-saving disaster,’ and muted me when I notified you of Fury’s repeated calls and voicemails,” JARVIS responded primly.

“Dammit,” Tony muttered. 

Natasha took charge. “Bruce, Steve, I think it’d be best if neither of you were here when Fury arrives. Bucky, you can stay if you like, but we’ll probably make a more effective case without you.”

She was right—it would be easier to convince Fury that Steve wasn’t dangerous if the people saying so weren’t his best friend from a hundred years ago. Either way, though, Bucky wasn’t about to let Steve go off alone again. Possibly ever.

“You’re both welcome to come upstairs with me, finish eating dinner there,” Bruce offered.

“What do you say, Steve?” Bucky turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Want to go along with Bruce?”

Steve frowned. “You’re coming too?” he checked.

“You bet, pal.” Bucky started gathering up his soup stuff. Steve nodded and copied him. Once Bucky at least had grabbed everything he wanted to finish eating, they both followed Bruce to the elevator. 

“Have fun, losers!” Bucky called as the doors slid shut. Clint pulled a face and made it halfway through shooting him the bird before they were gone.

The elevator ride was nice and short, but painfully silent, so Bucky pulled out his phone to text JARVIS and ask if he could get a subtitled version of the kitchen camera feed on his cell. He didn’t want Steve to hear any of it, but it’d be nice to keep an eye on things. Maybe he’d text Clint a good counterpoint or two. Just if they needed the help.

They stepped off the elevator into Bruce’s rooms. 

“Tea, anyone?” Bruce offered after a moment. Bucky nodded vigorously. “I’ll, uh, just go put the kettle on then.”

Bucky set his dishes down on the coffee table in the middle of the sunlit living room. Tentatively, Steve followed suit, and Bucky shot him an encouraging grin. Then he flopped down in one of the two armchairs with a sigh.

“C’mon, pal, you can take a seat,” he gestured to Steve at the other chair. Steve perched on its edge, and for a minute they were quiet. 

Finally, Bruce returned with three mugs dangling from one hand and a steaming teapot in the other. “It’s a peppermint-chamomile blend, one of my personal favourites,” he explained, setting the pot down on a coaster. “I can also grab sugar, cream, honey? Anyone have a preference?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m good, thanks, Bruce. Steve, do you want tea?” Bucky glanced over. 

Steve looked frozen, eyes darting between Bruce and the exits (one door, four exterior windows), and Bucky leaned forward immediately. “Hey. Hey, Stevie. Do you remember what I said earlier? Bruce is… he’s a safe person. He’d never hurt you. No matter what you say here, no one’s gonna do anything to you that you don’t want. Nobody. Okay?” He waited for Steve’s nod before letting himself relax a bit. 

“Here, Steve, I’ll pour you a cup and you can decide if you want it,” Bruce interjected softly. He filled one of the mugs and took a sip from it before passing it over to Steve. 

Eyeing him warily, Steve took a cautious taste and immediately recoiled in disgust. He stared down at the teacup, looking affronted.

Bruce gave Steve his little half-smile. “Not a fan?”

Steve jerked his head back up, tensing briefly before giving a quick, tiny head-shake.

“Yeah, it’s not everyone’s, uh, thing, I guess,” Bruce agreed. Bucky raised an eyebrow at him, which Bruce ignored. “Is there anything in particular you don’t like about it? Maybe I’ll have better luck picking a good one next time.”

Bucky tried for a reassuring nod when Steve shot him a panicked glance at that. 

Steve took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on a point over Bruce’s left shoulder, and blurted out, “It’s too bitter, and it tastes like grass.”

Bruce covered his mouth with one hand, hiding a chuckle. “That’s… very well-said. Thank you for telling me, Steve. I guess that means you’d probably prefer it with a sweetener, and maybe no more chamomile. Not everyone likes the flavour,” he mused.

“When we were kids, you always liked it better with honey,” Bucky commented quietly. Steve stared at him, expression indecipherable.

“Do you want to come try a couple different blends?” Bruce offered, jerking a thumb in the kitchen’s direction. “I’ve got plenty of warm water left in the kettle, and honey in the cupboard if you want it.”

After a moment, Steve nodded and stood, following Bruce around the low wall into his tiny kitchen space. Bucky stayed where he was. He could see them fine from where he sat, and there wasn’t really room for three in there anyway. Instead, he poured himself a cup from the teapot on the table and glanced down at his phone display.

JARVIS had done as he’d asked, splitting the screen so he could watch from two different camera angles, which was real handy. He could see pretty much everyone’s faces clear as day. As he watched, the elevator doors slid open to let Fury, Hill and—surprisingly—Sam Wilson step out. 

Fury’s mouth moved, and captions popped up at the bottom of the screen. “What the hell were you thinking, Stark?”

“What?” Tony gesticulated. “We did what we came for, burned HYDRA, mission accomplished, I figured we could head home.”

“You took my helicopter,” Fury growled.

“In my defense, I was planning to return that. Eventually.”

Fury rubbed his temples, and Hill stepped up to bat. “More importantly, you took the Winter Soldier. You said over the comms you ‘had him,’ and then you flew off. Do you still ‘have him’? Is he safely restrained? We’re gonna have to question him, if that’s possible.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony rolled back on his heels. “See, I _had_ the Soldier. I was carrying him back to the Tower and everything, but I guess on the way there he just,” Tony waved, “you know. Slipped. Bucky’s real torn up about it, Bruce is still trying to console him, it’s a real shame.”

Bucky stared at the subtitles, but the words didn’t change. Natasha and Clint, of course, didn’t even blink. What comes of being a super-spy. Sam’s eyebrows looked like they were trying to take flight, but he kept quiet too.

“He slipped,” Fury repeated slowly. “Just like that? A _freak accident?”_

“Wouldn’t be the first one of its kind, would it, Director Fury?” Tony shot back.

Hill pressed her lips together. “You saw the files.”

“Damn right, I saw the files. My father was his friend, isn’t that what the books say? All of Dad’s favourite bedtime-stories-slash-lectures were about his glory days with the great Captain America. And the Soldier murdered both of my parents in cold blood. So. You know what they say.” Tony shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

“It might not have been entirely his fault, Stark,” Fury said carefully. He looked a little stricken.

Tony stepped closer. “Oh, it _might_ not, huh? Tell me, Fury,” he tilted his head, “would you be willing to risk the lives of, mm, pretty much everyone here, on the off chance that the Winter Soldier _might not_ be in _total_ control of his actions? You’d be fine with letting him wander around to his little cybernetic heart’s content?”

Fury stared at him. “No,” he answered finally. “But—”

“But nothing,” Tony cut him off. “It’s done. I took care of it. Problem solved, crisis averted, you’re welcome.”

“Stark…” Fury trailed off.

“Can you at least tell us where you left the body?” Hill interjected.

“Which piece?” Tony returned. “I dumped most of it in the Hudson, but…”

Bucky startled as Bruce and Steve walked back in the living room. He switched his phone off.

“So it looks like the winner for today is lemongrass tea with a splash of honey,” Bruce announced. Steve was cradling a mug with a faintly awestruck expression.

Bucky managed a smile. “Sounds great, Stevie.”

They sat in the sun and made stilted conversation for awhile, drinking tea and eating soup, until finally Bucky’s phone buzzed with a message from JARVIS telling them it was safe to come down.

Bucky could not wait to find out how this one ended up.

\+ + +

“…might have bought it, but I wouldn’t count on it. Either way, Fury’s definitely going to be keeping Stark Tower under surveillance, so if we want to keep this up we’re going to have to take steps to work around that,” Natasha was saying when they walked back into the kitchen.

“I can adjust the window opacity on all private floors to make sure no one can see inside,” Tony chipped in. 

“Hey!” Sam interrupted, spotting the newcomers. Fury and Hill were gone, but Bucky should’ve realized that Sam would stick around. Obviously, he wasn’t about to fly right back to DC without an explanation. “Long time no see, right? I gotta say though, some of you are looking pretty good for dead folks.” He cocked a brow.

“Come again?” Bruce blinked.

Tony cleared his throat. “So I may have wound up telling Fury I killed Steve,” he blurted. 

Steve looked panicked.

“Not that I did, obviously! Or would. Or will,” Tony hurried to add, raising his hands placatingly. “It just seemed like the best way to convince him not to, you know. Freak out, call in the cavalry, yada yada.”

“And I’m still wondering why that would’ve been a bad thing,” Sam put in. 

“Right, this guy,” Clint spoke up. “Bucky, apparently you called him in? He says you told him about Steve here, and as soon as you guys were done talking he phoned up Fury and talked him into flying straight to the Tower.”

“Hey, it didn’t take much,” Sam defended. “Fury was gonna come looking for his helicopter anyways. All I did was tell him where y’all put it.”

“Why did you come, though?” Bucky asked. “I figured you’d want to kick back at home for a while, after today.”

Sam shrugged. “I had a couple weeks of vacation time booked already from the VA, to fly out for my nephew’s college graduation. I figured I might as well take off a week early and make sure everything over here’s going okay. Like I said, Barnes, any chance I get to help out, I’m there.”

Bucky studied Sam for a minute. 

He had to say, when he’d almost absentmindedly flirted with Hot Jogging Guy, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it, let alone the kind of friendship and bizarre loyalty Sam Wilson was apparently ready to hand out to any fugitive that showed up at his doorstep. “Thank you,” he responded eventually. He wasn’t saying it made sense to him, but he was grateful.

Not a lot in his life seemed to make sense, after all. Everything pretty much went to pieces after he crashed that plane. No, before that, even. Bucky’s life stopped making sense when Steve fell out of it. And now he was trapped in the future, building a life as a super-spy among gods and aliens, acting as a sometime-hero, sometime-outlaw, reluctant Captain America, and he weathered it all because what choice did he have? But now, as sudden and crazy as everything else, Steve was back. 

Steve was back. He was brainwashed, broken, he’d probably never be the same, but he was _here._

Bucky glanced at the others and was caught off-guard by a wave of affection. Natasha with her little smirk, Clint with his cocked brow, Tony’s fake boredom, Bruce’s dry comfort, even Sam’s concern—all of these oddballs had somehow become family. And he knew they weren’t alone, him and Steve, that everyone would be all in to help Steve recover as much as he possibly could. 

More than anything else, though—even if they were alone after all, even if Steve and Bucky wound up running from the law and fighting for their lives—it didn’t matter. Steve was back, and Bucky would be damned before he lost him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Fluff (sort of)! They said it couldn't be done (“they” being the muses that drive this fic) but they were _wrong._ Take that, Melpomene.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	13. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was on the third night of his wandering that Steve discovered the vents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of all over the place in terms of fluff, angst, relationship-development, and the general passage of time. Eventually I gave up on finding a good quote for the summary and just plucked out my favourite bit: Ceiling Vent Steve Rogers (the saga begins). Gratuitous vent-dwelling, everyone!

Steve didn’t really understand what was happening. 

He was completely sure about exactly four things:

  * Barnes was not Subject 074. (The thought of HYDRA touching him, calling him their property the way they had done to the Soldier, filled Steve with a strange hot sensation which he remembered after a moment was called “anger,” and was typically forbidden. He was remembering a lot lately, though, and had yet to be punished for anything. At this point, he wasn’t sure _any_ of his protocols still applied.) 
  * Barnes was his friend and could be trusted absolutely.
  * Barnes must, accordingly, be protected at all costs.
  * Steve didn’t want to go back to being the Soldier.



Everything else, though? Steve ranged from “moderately confused” to “completely lost.” Right now, he was sticking as close to Barnes as he could, and doing his best to avoid the agents— _no,_ he reminded himself, _Barnes’ allies_ —who had restrained him initially. Difficult, at present, because they were all clustered together in the kitchen for breakfast. 

Steve kept telling himself that they were Barnes’ allies and as such could be trusted. Oddly, though, whenever any of them came too close or moved too quickly, he experienced a different unpleasant feeling he eventually identified as “fear.” 

Steve was starting to suspect this “emotions” stuff was a glitch in his (evidently in-need-of-restructuring) protocols.

Bruce was okay. He’d let slip yesterday afternoon that he was a doctor, which resulted in another flash of memory—clearer to Steve for a moment than the room around him—of a group of people standing around him in masks and gloves holding him down while he screamed, but eventually they worked out that Bruce wasn’t that kind of doctor, so that was alright. 

Bruce had also given Steve his own supply of lemongrass tea as soon as he and Barnes walked into the kitchen. Steve didn’t really know what to do with that. It took even longer than “fear” to figure out “gratitude.”

Last night, Steve had been briefly concerned to notice a slight decrease in his reaction time and a tendency to blink more often and longer. He swallowed his reluctance and suggested to Barnes that it was time for recalibration, but instead Barnes had shown him back to the room and demonstrated again how to lie down on the bed. After that, Steve remembered what sleep was (very different from cryo).

Now they were both in the kitchen, Barnes making improbably large omelettes and piling them onto a serving platter while Steve stood awkwardly to the side. The red-haired agent and the one with the bow were sitting across from him at the island, while Bruce fiddled with a blender over in the corner. The new fella, the one who used to have wings, was flipping through a newspaper at the table.

“Natasha, why am I awake?” asked the one with the bow. He did not currently have his bow, and his voice was muffled, likely because his face was crushed against his arms as he slumped over the counter.

The red-haired one—Natasha. Steve was determined to remember their names—ruffled the bow-man’s hair, smirking as he groaned. “Because Bucky’s making breakfast,” she explained reasonably. “I mean, if you’d rather have missed it…”

“Noooo,” he whined, but at the same time he brought up his hands to cover his ears and the back of his head, so Steve really wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.

The same little “STARK INDUSTRIES” logo that had appeared last night materialized above the kitchen counter. Just like before, it was quickly accompanied by a bodiless British voice filling the room. 

“If I may, Agent Barton, the coffee should be nearly finished brewing. Perhaps you would feel more awake—”

“Coffee?” Barton interrupted, sitting up and looking suddenly alert. “Gimme.”

“Just make sure you leave enough for Tony, Clint,” called a new woman who appeared in the doorway. 

She addressed Barnes’ ally with familiarity and did not immediately move to attack, nor did anyone in the kitchen respond defensively. Steve judged, after the adrenaline abated slightly, that she likely did not pose a threat. Still, he moved to position himself between Barnes and the new mission factor, just in case.

“Steve, this is Pepper,” Barnes said cautiously from behind him. “She’s a friend of mine. She lives here in the Tower.”

Steve relaxed once his evaluation was confirmed, the whirring in his metal arm settling.

“Hi there, Steve,” Pepper waved, grinning warmly. She walked further into the kitchen, and after a moment, the screwdriver man trailed in behind her, his eyelids drooping. 

“Sorry I startled you!” Pepper went on. “I got home from a business trip pretty late last night, but Tony told me a little about you when I arrived.” She jabbed an elbow into the screwdriver man’s side, and Steve jumped. The screwdriver man didn’t seem to notice, though. 

Pepper sighed. “I apologize for Tony. He’s a gremlin before he gets his coffee.”

Steve blinked at her as Tony lurched toward the coffeepot. Those were a lot of words. Was he expected to respond?

“Breakfast is ready,” Barnes announced before he could decide, to his relief. Steve glanced back to see Barnes brandishing his spatula at the others. “One omelette each, no nicking extras until everybody’s taken one. I mean it, Clint,” he added, scowling at the archer. Barton stuck his tongue out, clutching a very large mug to his chest.

“I’ve mixed together a protein shake for you, Steve,” Bruce piped in, beckoning him over. He handed Steve a cup of thick, whitish liquid. “Let me know how it tastes.”

Tastes. An evaluative term, used to quantify a specific category of sensory experiences. Often correlated to pleasure or distress.

This was like the tea, Steve realized.

Tentatively, he took a sip of the shake. 

“Thoughts?” Bruce asked.

“Lemon,” Steve observed immediately. “Sweet, nutty, pleasing texture.” He hesitated. “It’s good,” he added.

Bruce had not been angry when Steve expressed his subjective experiences regarding the tea. He had specifically invited Steve to do the same for the protein shake. However, it was possible that one of the others would act to reinforce proper protocols.

Steve waited.

“I’m very glad,” Bruce hummed. The man who didn’t have wings had been glaring at Steve sporadically since he entered the kitchen, but contrary to projected outcomes, his expression seemed to soften slightly as Steve finished speaking, and he flipped to the back page of his newspaper without any fuss. No one else reacted, except Barnes, who patted Steve’s left shoulder on his way to grab an omelette.

Steve wasn’t sure what to call the new emotion he was feeling, but whatever it was, it made his limbs feel a little less heavy and tugged just slightly at the corners of his mouth. 

He took another sip of the protein shake, and smiled.

The rest of breakfast went fairly smoothly; Barton perked up after his coffee and two of Barnes’ omelettes, and Pepper regaled them all with humorous reports of her recent mission in Japan. Steve would never have believed a debriefing could be pleasant, but there it was.

When everyone finally stopped eating and began cleaning up the dishes, Natasha gestured for Steve to come over. Warily, he obeyed, following her to the other side of the room. 

“Steve,” she began, tilting her head in an almost… deferential movement. “I wanted to clarify a few things for you, going forward. I know that up to now you’ve been punished for things like acting independently and speaking freely, but that isn’t going to be the case anymore. 

“Some actions are still forbidden,” she added. “You aren’t allowed to hurt any of the people in this room, or anyone else unless they attack first. We’d also prefer if you stayed inside the Tower, for your own safety as well as others’. Besides that, though, you’re free to act however you please. There will be no penalty.”

She looked him in the eyes. Steve quickly averted his gaze, of course, staring at a point over her shoulder, but she just leaned into his field of vision and waited. 

On the one hand, he knew better than to return such an obvious challenge. On the other, did he really? If what she said was true, then it was official: none of Steve’s protocols remained active. He was operating under entirely new circumstances, and at the moment Steve didn’t really have more than two rules and a guess at what those were. 

He took a breath, braced himself, and looked back at Natasha.

She nodded and smiled. “I mean it, Steve,” she said quietly. “You’re safe here.”

Steve didn’t know what that meant, but he thought it might be good.

\+ + +

It wasn’t all lemon drinks and omelettes, of course. For one thing, the novelty of natural sleep wore off pretty quickly once Steve rediscovered nightmares.

After the first time he woke up screaming and nearly crushed Barnes’ windpipe before he realized where he was, they both agreed it was unwise to continue with the bed-sharing. Barnes insisted on taking the couch, which Steve hated, but the next day he saw the entire den had been converted to a second bedroom with a king-sized bed and a floor-to-ceiling retractable divider. Tony’s extravagance, Barnes had explained.

It was nice not having to worry about accidentally murdering Barnes, but Steve still did not enjoy sleeping. He took to slipping out and roaming the halls for hours after Barnes drifted off, avoiding his bed as much as possible without (too) severely impacting his baseline functionality. 

The dreams were almost enough to make him wish for cryo, instead, except that would mean going back to HYDRA. Being recalibrated, becoming the Asset again. 

Steve would take the nightmares.

So it was that, on the third night of his wandering, Steve discovered the vents.

They were bizarrely large. Most air ducts, especially in residential housing, were too small to accommodate anything larger than a rat or a contortionist, but the Tower was lined with vents big enough for Steve to fit comfortably inside. There were even one or two places where intersecting passages formed an enlarged alcove, tall enough for Steve to sit all the way up. 

Steve found this out by accident when he went to investigate a rattling sound in the hallway during his usual 0200-hours-prowling. It was coming from the ceiling; standing on his toes, he could just reach to push up against the vent cover that had come loose. To his intrigue, the small rectangle of the register turned out to be embedded in a much larger square of the ceiling, all of which slid aside at his prodding to reveal the oversized ventilation system that apparently ran through Stark Tower. 

Steve only hesitated a moment before vaulting upwards and wriggling into the duct. Romanoff (Steve had learned that the designation “Natasha” was reserved for her trusted associates) had ordered him to remain within the Tower, but he wasn’t leaving. He was exploring within the given parameters. He was reasonably sure Barnes’ allies would not be displeased enough to take any drastic corrective measures— _probability = <43.2%_, he thought absently. 

Besides. He was curious.

The vents turned out to be an excellent resource. They led nearly everywhere in the Tower: private floors had normal-sized ducts, and thus were harder to access, but most rooms were directly attached to what was practically one vast network of secret passages. _Like something outta Dick Tracy,_ Steve thought, and then wondered why he’d thought that. 

Sound travelled clearly in the vents, too, making it very easy to eavesdrop from a distance. As long as Steve didn’t make a noise to give himself away, he could be an invisible third party to practically any conversation. This quality also made the vents an ideal sleeping space: as soon as Steve’s dreams became uncomfortable, he would start to toss, and then his elbow or knee would bang the wall with a king-size clatter and he’d be awake.

Steve quickly fell into a new routine: sleep in the vents from 2300 to 0500 hours, then gather intel on the Tower occupants and/or shadow Barnes, again from within the vents. The only times he emerged regularly were for meals, at Barnes’ orders, which turned out to mean he exited the vents quite often. 

Steve was consuming approximately 3500 kcal of food daily, usually separated into three main intake periods. Initially his sustenance came in liquid form, but soon he graduated to a variety of solid foods. Despite his reluctance to leave the vents once he’d found them, he had to admit, the new nutrition plan was—not undesirable. For the first time that Steve could remember (and he had an inexplicable hunch that it really was the first time _ever_ ) he wasn’t hungry all the time. 

On the whole, he found it an acceptable arrangement.

Of course, that didn’t make it any easier to process the conversation he overheard one day, a few weeks into Steve’s retrievable memory.

Steve was tracking Barnes, as per usual. He still wasn’t sure if Barnes knew about his surveillance protocol; based on the kinds of things Barnes said throughout the day, he assumed Steve was listening at least some of the time, but likely did not realize the extent of Steve’s scrutiny. 

At present, Barnes was entering Stark’s laboratory. Steve kept his distance—that room in particular evoked an unpleasant emotional response, which he would rather avoid, and anyways all the vents leading into it were far too small to crawl through—but, even from a good fifty meters away, the sounds from within carried clearly to Steve’s enhanced ears.

“So I have a question,” Barnes started without preamble. There was a faint clattering (possibly Stark dropping his tools in surprise) but Barnes just continued, “It’s about Steve. And look, I know it’s not really your area of expertise, but I couldn’t ask Bruce and you seemed to understand more than I did when we first saw… you know. The diagrams.”

Barnes lowered his voice, which did nothing to stop Steve hearing his next words. “Tony, do you think, if Steve ever wanted it, his metal implants could be removed?”

There was a long sigh, which sounded like it came from Stark. It was, unfortunately, nowhere near long enough for Steve to process that question.

“The short answer is ‘no,’” Stark muttered back. Steve didn’t know what to do with that either. 

“Honestly? I have no idea how he survived that surgery in the first place,” Stark went on. “You have to assume he has one hell of a healing factor, but still, the way Zola designed that chest plate—bits of metal are wrapped around half his essential organs, and don’t get me started on the implants in his brain. Even if we did somehow reverse-engineer a procedure as insanely successful as Zola’s, at this point his body’s grown around the stuff. We’d have to cut into vital tissue to try and get it out. Healing factor or not, it would boil down to glorified murder.”

“Right,” Barnes said quietly, after another brief pause. “Right, that makes sense. And it’s not like Steve hasn’t been through enough medical trauma already. Thanks, Tony, you’ve been a big help.”

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, even as Stark made a vaguely protesting noise. Steve didn’t pursue Barnes for a change. He was busy trying to sort out all the new emotions that were coming up in response to what he’d overheard. 

Meanwhile, Stark was gnarring. “Someone needs to talk to him,” he huffed to an empty room. “Or, you know, he needs to talk to someone. JARVIS, tell Sam Bucky needs someone to talk to. If I went after him God knows it’d just end in alcohol and repression.”

After a moment, the now-familiar disembodied voice answered, “He is on his way now, Sir. And if I may, I would like to recommend once again that you attend your weekly appointments with the therapist Ms. Potts selected—”

“Mute,” Stark commanded absently. The sound of metallic tinkering filtered through the vents, and Steve crawled away.

He didn’t mean to, but he found himself circling back to Barnes’ apartment. Sam Wilson—that was the man who used to have wings—didn’t like Steve, and Steve felt uneasy around him, but he seemed to be a true and beneficial ally to Barnes. Hopefully their conversation would make Barnes feel better about whatever was eating him. 

Why was Barnes upset, though? It had to do with Steve, that much was clear. 

And it—it wasn’t just Barnes that was upset. Something dark and sharp and painful was sitting in Steve’s bones, and Barnes’ words had prodded at it. 

What _was it?_

He didn’t know, and he wanted to. He needed to.

Thus he found himself crouched a few twists and turns away from Barnes’ rooms, as Wilson’s voice floated up into the ducts.

“…just said you seemed like you were pretty cut up about something,” Wilson was saying. 

There was a faint rustling and the sound of footsteps, as if someone had got up and walked across the room. 

“I don’t,” Barnes started, “I mean, I’m just… Damn it, it’s so stupid.” He laughed hollowly. “I wanted to ask Tony about Steve’s metal parts. You’ve never really seen them up close, right? Apart from the helicarrier?” A brief pause. “His whole top half is covered in a goddamn HYDRA skull, and it sounds like that ain’t gonna change, probably ever. It’s… Sam, it’s friggin’ _horrible._ And I just thought, the Steve I knew would’ve hated to have that carved into him.”

“Barnes… He’s not the Steve you knew, though, right?” Sam reminded.

“Yeah, you don’t say,” Barnes snapped back. He huffed a breath. “Sorry. I’m aware, though. My Stevie died a long time ago. Zola murdered him. I don’t figure I’ll ever get him back. I _know_ this Steve isn’t—isn’t the same. He doesn’t mind what they built into him. And I know it’s selfish of me to hope that ever changes.”

“Selfish?” Sam echoed.

There was a muffled slamming sound. “Yeah, selfish. Selfish, because I should be hoping Steve never remembers a damn thing about who he used to be. At least right now he doesn’t know what HYDRA took. He’s killed people, Sam, good people, people he’d’ve died to protect, and right now he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what they made him do. He doesn’t know what they made him into.”

Barnes’ voice hitched, and he stopped for a minute. “I would’ve died for Steve in a heartbeat,” he finally added. “Still would. I would _gladly_ trade places with him, be HYDRA’s Winter Soldier, if it meant he could be safe. God, I wish it were that easy. I’m just some dumb jerk from Brooklyn, but Steve was—Steve was _everything._ ” Barnes’ voice went very quiet, and Steve had to strain to hear. “He was my everything, and they broke him.”

Steve’d heard enough.

He didn’t pay much attention to where he was going as he fled through the vents. Eventually, he found himself in one of the cavernous intersections, and curled up on himself to think.

_My Stevie._

_He’s not the Steve you knew, though._

_Selfish. I should be hoping Steve never remembers a damn thing._

But. Steve wanted to remember.

Steve was made of metal and flesh and broken protocols and forbidden phrases. He was not the Soldier, not anymore. He wanted—he chose to be Stevie. 

Barnes was his friend. 

No. 

Bucky was his friend.

He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and finally let himself think. What came before?

There was a beautiful boy with a brilliant smile, who held out a handful of dandelions. There was a young man in a smart green uniform, an apology in his eyes, a draft letter in his hand; a boy in a dark suit, _we can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids, it’ll be fun_ —

A searing pain, like every cell of his body was on fire, and then a rush of the most exhilarating power he’d ever felt—

A young lady with piercing dark eyes, laughing beside him: _You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you_ —

Falling, Bucky’s horrified face whipping away from him in the blink of an eye—

Waking to find his arm gone, HYDRA agents sneering at him, and it was bad enough before Zola came but oh, when he _did_ —

Steve _remembered._

\+ + +

“Holy—” Barton reared back with a choking sound.

Steve didn’t move. He’d heard someone approaching, of course, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Belatedly he realized that Barton must not have been able to see him until he reached the intersection, since Steve was tucked into the vent perpendicular to the one Barton was crawling through. That must have been a shock: realizing you were barely a foot away from the Winter Soldier. Steve shifted backwards to give Barton more space.

“Geez, man, give a guy a little warning. Wait, no. I mean, sorry, bro, just let me get out of your hair, didn’t mean to…” Barton trailed off and snapped his mouth shut with a click as Steve accidentally met his eyes. Steve wasn’t sure what he saw, but whatever it was, it made Barton’s whole demeanor change.

“Hey, Steve,” he said, sitting back on his haunches and relaxing his arms. “Hope you don’t mind my saying, but it looks like you’re having a rough time. Wanna talk?”

Steve stared. 

He didn’t know what else to do. What was he supposed to say? 

He shook his head, eyes still locked on Barton. 

“That’s cool,” the archer shrugged. “Okay if I sit here for a while, or would you rather I left you alone?”

Steve froze, voice caught in his throat, but Barton just crouched patiently and waited for his answer. Steve realized suddenly that he really didn’t want to be alone.

“Stay,” he blurted, and shrank further into his duct.

Barton just responded, “Sweet,” and plunked himself down in the middle of the vent-alcove with much less racket than the movement should, by all rights, have made. After a moment, he pulled out a few sheets of paper and started folding them.

For the first bit Steve watched him warily. Gradually, though, he found himself relaxing. For lack of anything else to do, he watched Barton fold; under his fingers, a complicated sort of plane took shape, followed by a bird and then what looked like a spider. He was halfway through his fourth one when he spoke again.

“One of my best friends used to be an assassin, y’know,” he murmured casually. “She managed to escape in the end, that’s how I got to know her, but for a long time she was kept prisoner by some pretty terrible people. Not HYDRA, but similar. They forced her to do… a lot of bad things, and they did a lot of bad things to her. And that’s not the kind of stuff you just get over.” 

Barton’s face did something complicated, settling into a shadowed half-smile. “It was really bad, in the beginning. She’s doing so much better these days, and I guess that’s how it goes: your good days get better, bit by bit, and your bad days get a little less frequent. Anyway, she says that on bad days, sometimes she just can’t talk at all, and that’s okay. And then she says sometimes she needs to talk, and even if what she ends up saying doesn’t make sense to anyone else, she still needs to say it out loud, just so she can stop repeating it in her head and start making sense of it for herself.”

Steve turned this over in his head a few times after Barton fell silent. There was a long stretch of quiet.

“What if I’m not worth saving,” he muttered suddenly.

“How d’you mean?”

Steve frowned, staring down at his hands. “I’m not Bucky’s Steve anymore.” He rubbed at his chest. “He died, a long time ago. Maybe whatever’s left is just HYDRA. The Asset doesn’t deserve to be rescued. It’s just a weapon.”

He looked back at Barton. “Maybe it would be better—kinder—just to dispose of me. Stop torturing Bucky with his friend’s face, eliminate the Winter Soldier. Easy.”

“Easier, yeah, but not better,” Barton countered, his eyes abruptly hardening. “You’re right, Steve, you’re not the same guy you used to be. Probably never will be. But that doesn’t make you worthless. Ask Bucky if he wants to stop being ‘tortured’ with your presence. Hell, ask Stark. I guarantee you, Barnes cares just as much about you now as he ever did before. What HYDRA did to you messed you up good, but that doesn’t mean you can’t heal from it, and it sure doesn’t mean you can’t build a new life for yourself beyond what they tried to make you into.”

Barton leaned forward. “Steve, promise me you aren’t gonna give up on yourself. Because Bucky’s never going to give up on you. I’m not giving up on you. I swear things are gonna change with time, things are gonna get better, but you can’t give up.”

Slowly, Steve nodded. Barton maintained eye contact for a minute longer before bobbing a nod of his own and collapsing back to the vent floor.

Steve held still for a while longer, eyes on Barton’s continued paper-folding. 

He remembered everything. Who he used to be. Growing up loving Bucky. Volunteering for the army, the serum, leading his best friends into battle, kissing Peggy. Falling, splintering under HYDRA’s torture, but holding on to himself anyway: _Captain Steven Grant Rogers, US Army._ Everything, right up until Zola erased him.

And then there were snippets of memory, blurry and disjointed: blood, mostly, and fear. Lining up a sniper’s scope to a target. Faking an accident. Destroying the evidence that he was ever there. The white light and searing pain of cryo, in that moment just after the cold froze his bones and just before everything went blank. 

He wasn’t sure anymore where the Soldier left off and Steve began. Barton was right, though, he thought: he wasn’t HYDRA’s Asset. He refused to be. He wasn’t sure if he was really Steve, but—maybe Barton was right about that too. He wasn’t the same. But maybe he still could be himself.

He chose to be Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos much appreciated!! Let me know what you think!


	14. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll help you make dessert after we finish eating,” Steve suggested equably. He settled back in his chair, looking pleased.
> 
> “Still a punk,” Bucky groused, but he took a bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated later than usual, I know. I've finally caught up to myself in terms of what I've written vs. what I've posted, so the next few chapters will continue to come a bit slower, but I do have each chapter outlined (and only one of them ends on a cliffhanger)!
> 
> Warnings: one character has a brief panic attack/flashback, described only from a (compassionate and knowledgeable) outside perspective. 
> 
> Outside of that, though, the rest of the chapter is almost exclusively fluff (and you'd better believe I am _so_ impressed with myself. Take that, muse). (At least. I think it's fluff. Well, it involves a lot of shared meals and protective impulses, so.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Bucky rubbed his forehead. Talking things over with Sam had helped some, but now he just felt exhausted. 

It was still too early for bed, though, so Bucky did the next best thing and started pulling out the ingredients for cookies, contemplating whether he should include chocolate chips or leave them plain.

Another great thing about this century: men could bake, and were only sometimes mocked for it. The 60s “sexual revolution” was one of Bucky’s favourite things to find out about. Steve would’ve—

Bucky set the flour down with a bit more force than necessary. “Chocolate chip it is.”

He turned and nearly jumped out of his skin. “Steve!”

Steve shifted awkwardly, shuffling his feet in the kitchen doorway. 

“When did you get here?”

“Forty-six seconds ago,” Steve answered promptly. His voice still had that odd rusty quality—not quite hoarse, but obviously not well-used. 

“Huh,” was Bucky’s witty reply. The fact was, he’d gotten used to seeing Steve for meals and otherwise not at all. He wasn’t _thrilled_ about the arrangement, of course, but he’d accepted it as the way things were gonna be for a while. Now, right on the heels of his and Sam’s big conversation, here Steve was, shaking things up again. Bucky was a little off-balance, is what he was saying.

“Want to help me bake cookies?” he offered, for lack of a better plan.

Steve nodded firmly, so Bucky shrugged to himself and beckoned him over.

“These ones are gonna be double-chocolate,” he informed Steve, “so why don’t you pull out the cocoa from that cupboard?” He nodded at the correct one, and Steve obediently opened it and started rooting around inside. Bucky left him to it, turning to the fridge to get out the eggs and milk and hiding behind the door for a minute while he oriented himself.

Alright. He was going to bake cookies with his best friend-turned-stranger, more than half a century after both of them should have died. This would be fun. Just peachy.

Chocolate chips were not going to be enough. Hence the cocoa.

Once Bucky got past the initial surprise and awkwardness, though, it went okay. Steve was, of course, mostly silent, but at this point that was just the norm, and he turned out to have a knack for measuring ingredients. Bucky caught him changing the ratios at one point, but he didn’t say anything—if Steve wanted to disobey some instructions, Bucky sure as hell wasn’t gonna tell him not to. 

In fact, when the dishes were cleaned up and the cookies finally cooled enough to eat, they turned out to be delicious. 

They chewed in silence for a few minutes.

“These are good,” Steve said unexpectedly.

Bucky started, then nodded vehemently to make up for his shock. “Yeah, they turned out real nice,” he agreed, his voice a bit too loud.

Silence descended again.

Finally, Steve stood up from the table and Bucky quickly followed suit. 

Steve hesitated for a moment, glancing at the bedroom door. 

“You’re always welcome to sleep here,” Bucky offered, just in case. Bucky hadn’t been using the bedroom since Steve had asked for a separate space to sleep, even though he’d been in the vents most of the time anyway. 

He didn’t really expect Steve to take him up on the offer, but then, nothing this evening was going as expected. Steve dipped his head tentatively and moved toward the bedroom, hesitating as he put his hand on the doorknob. 

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve murmured, and went inside.

Well.

Alright then.

The saga of his nonsensical life continued.

Bucky ate another cookie.

\+ + +

Bucky woke up the next morning to find Steve passed out on the floor beside his bed. _When the heck did that happen,_ he wondered. Probably Steve’d had a nightmare.

Either that or he’d been moments from assassinating Bucky in his sleep before changing his mind or passing out, but Bucky chose not to think about that possibility for too long.

Life was full of exciting mysteries.

Bucky turned on the coffeemaker.

He was careful not to wake Steve, but it was only a few minutes before he started stirring, anyway. Bucky shrugged and threw some more bacon in the frying pan.

“Morning, pal,” he greeted when Steve’s head poked up over the side of the bed. Steve looked at him stupidly, his still-short hair standing out practically in a halo around his head.

“Hmmgwah,” Steve asked.

“Bacon and coffee, and I’m frying up some eggs after I finish with the rashers,” Bucky answered. “Come on over and eat something while it’s hot.”

Steve blinked at him a few more times before obeying. Finally, he got up and slunk over to the kitchen table with an eerie grace that, in Bucky’s opinion, clashed violently with the bedhead. 

Steve plunked into a chair. Bucky gestured at the bacon with his spatula, and Steve obligingly skewered a few slices with his fork and started eating.

“You never used to be a morning person, Buck,” Steve commented after swallowing. 

“Yeah, well, nothing like sleeping through seventy years to take the thrill out of a late morning,” Bucky answered automatically, before realizing what Steve had said.

He turned, and Steve was watching him.

Bucky turned off the stove element. “You remember that, huh?” he tried, sliding into the chair across from Steve.

Steve looked away. “I remember everything.”

Well. Damn. Bucky was suddenly glad he’d had that conversation with Sam yesterday.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve snapped, eyes flicking back to his. “I’m not sorry to remember.”

“Are you glad?” 

Steve stopped. Bucky waited, but he didn’t seem to know how to reply.

“Steve,” Bucky leaned forward. “If you’re glad, I’m glad. Nobody had the right to take those memories from you. But look, I’m not expecting you to suddenly go back to who you used to be. You don’t have to do anything, or share anything, if you’re not comfortable with it. I’m not waiting for anything from you.”

“I want you to, though,” Steve burst out. “I want to go back to being Steve. I want—they took—it’s not _right_ ,” he broke off. “I want to be myself again,” he finished hoarsely.

Bucky swore silently and shoved his chair back, coming around the table. He extended his arms tentatively and Steve practically threw himself into them, burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder. “Aw, Stevie,” Bucky exhaled. 

After a moment, Bucky pulled back a little, keeping his hands on both of Steve’s shoulders. “You’re right,” he started, “it ain’t goddamn fair, and it’s not gonna be a cushy ride for the next long while. But if you remember everything, Stevie, you know that I’m sticking with you to the end of the line. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re already yourself. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you feel that way, too, but you don’t have to change a thing to be my Steve. You’ve always been that, and until the second you tell me you don’t want it anymore, you’re always gonna be.”

Steve leaned forward a little, and Bucky wrapped his arms back around him. “You little punk,” he muttered. “Always picking the toughest battle to fight.”

Steve huffed. “Didn’t pick this one,” he pointed out, face still pressed into Bucky’s chest.

“Yeah,” Bucky answered. His fingers, tracing patterns on Steve’s scalp, brushed against the warm metal cord that dug into his flesh, interrupting his terrible bedhead. “Yeah, Steve, I know.”

\+ + +

Steve spent a lot less time in the vents, after that. He still disappeared into them every so often, especially on bad days and when things in the Tower got too crazy, but most of the time he stuck to Bucky’s side like glue.

Sam looked on with approval. Or, at least, approval’s paranoid step-cousin.

“He seems to be doing a lot better,” Sam commented once when Steve was out of the room, a few weeks after their big conversation. “Something happen?”

Bucky shrugged and nodded. He didn’t want to spill Steve’s private business, and he wasn’t sure Steve wanted people to know what he’d remembered.

“Good thing?” Sam checked. 

“Yeah. I think so,” Bucky answered.

“That’s good.” Sam took a sip of his coffee. “Still say he should be talking to a professional, but I guess it’s hard to find therapists skilled in rehabilitating brainwashed ex-assassins.”

“Ones that won’t want to lock him up, or worse,” Bucky amended. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure Tony’s been looking into it, but so far we haven’t found much.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” Sam noted.

Bucky hoped so. Steve certainly seemed to agree, although lately he’d been spending more and more time with Bruce and, surprisingly, Natasha and Clint. Bucky was glad to see Steve moving past his initial introduction to the other two. 

It would be nice if the Murder Club could get along with Bucky’s best friend.

Later, Bucky would reflect that if he was a superstitious man, he would regret letting that thought cross his mind. He would then remember the events of his life, and allow for the possibility that superstition might have a say in things after all.

Whether or not Bucky’s thoughts had any bearing on the matter, that evening was certainly exciting. 

For once, everyone had congregated in the common floor’s dining room for supper—even Tony, because Pepper was present to force him. Bucky had thrown together a beef casserole with a stir-fry on the side and everyone had just appeared like magic. He made a mental note to cook on the common floor more often.

Steve wasn’t looking too overwhelmed, Clint was waxing eloquent on the delicacies of dead cow flesh, Pepper and Natasha were discussing vacation destinations while Bruce listened attentively, Sam was stuck sitting next to Clint and had started slowly banging his head into the table—it was a damn near perfect evening, so of course JARVIS had to interrupt.

JARVIS had been using a little holographic logo to signal that he was about to speak since Steve had arrived. Sam had suggested the AI was compensating for his invisibility to accommodate Steve’s hypervigilance, and Bucky found it pretty nice himself, having a bit of warning before that voice popped up out of nowhere (to which Sam had replied that maybe Bucky wasn't without a touch of hypervigilance either).

Whatever the case, when the logo popped up over the dinner table, everyone sat straight and paid attention.

“Apologies for interrupting your meal, Sir,” JARVIS began. “However, it would seem that a number of SHIELD operatives have entered the Tower and are currently in the elevator, approaching the common floor.”

Bucky caught a glimpse of Steve pulling a revolver from _somewhere_ before he vanished into the nearest vent. After a moment, Bucky decided he’d rather not know where Steve got a gun.

The next few seconds were chaos. Tony swore and demanded JARVIS explain how they’d gotten this far without detection, Pepper’s posture shifted from relaxed to CEO-on-duty, Natasha, Bruce and Clint all went stone-still, and Sam sat up and started asking where Steve had gone. Bucky, for his part, was gearing up for a battle. 

SHIELD never showed up without a reason, and that went double for HYDRA. Neither of them would have much difficulty sneaking past the main floors’ security (still more monitoring than most government facilities had, but compared to what Tony had done to secure the private levels of the Tower, it was child’s play), so that didn’t prove anything. SHIELD agents on their own were a pain, sure, but from what Bucky could tell, they were still figuring out who was loyal to Fury and who was secretly HYDRA. 

This could be an attack, easy.

“Be ready for a fight, Steve,” Bucky called, getting to his feet.

“Nobody panic,” Natasha tacked on.

The elevator doors opened.

“Oh, thank God,” Clint slumped in his chair.

“Wha—isn’t that guy supposed to be dead?” interjected Tony.

“Coulson!” Bucky grinned. “It’s okay, don’t shoot, he’s a friend,” he called into a vent.

Coulson had indeed stepped out of the elevator, accompanied by four other agents. Bucky vaguely recognized the scowling woman beside him—Melinda May had achieved a certain level of notoriety within SHIELD—but the other three were strangers. 

Hopefully they weren’t holding Coulson hostage. Usually Bucky would dismiss the thought, but if half the rumours about May were true, she would be nearly impossible to beat, even without whatever backup the three agents behind her might be providing.

Natasha seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because she smiled and exclaimed, “Phillip, it’s been too long.”

“I’m doing just fine, Romanoff, thank you for asking,” Coulson replied promptly. Clint and Bucky both relaxed at the code phrase. Another perk to hanging out with spies: you were always prepared for secret kidnappings.

“Sorry,” one of the new agents piped up, wide-eyed and with a Scottish accent. “But could—could you please… explain why you just said ‘don’t shoot’ to the—the, ah—”

“Vent,” the woman next to him supplied. 

Bucky floundered for a moment before Tony stepped in. “Oh, yeah, that was for JARVIS. Bucky still thinks he lives in the ceiling, I’ve given up on teaching him technology at this point. More pertinently, could you please explain what the hell you’re doing here? Because I feel like I was very clear to Fury about my feelings, and if he’s still having separation anxiety, that’s not my problem.”

“Unfortunately, our airborne mobile command station has been stolen—” Coulson started.

“Oh, no, Phil, not the Bus,” Natasha sympathized.

“The Bus was Phil’s _baby,_ ” Clint explained in a loud whisper.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Coulson countered stiffly. “Losing the Bus is an inconvenience, though, and with everything that’s been going on, we can’t trust whatever’s left of SHIELD. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Tony growled.

Pepper smiled sweetly and gripped Tony’s arm. “Excuse us for a moment,” she requested, pulling Tony away from the group.

“I told you this was a waste of time,” May hissed to Coulson.

“Oh, no, far from it,” Clint assured her. “Pepper’s on your side, which means you’re golden. Within five minutes Tony will be telling you which floor he’s putting you on.”

“While we wait, why don’t you introduce yourselves properly,” Bruce suggested, adjusting his glasses.

“Right!” exclaimed one of the agents. “Right, I’m Simmons, and this is Fitz.” The Scottish man gave an awkward wave. “That’s Skye,” the dark-eyed woman at the back of the group folded her arms and glared, “and this is Melinda May,” Simmons finished, waving at the agent in question.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Sam stuttered after a beat of silence.

“Seriously, though, Phil, where’ve you been all this time?” Bucky asked. “It’s been weeks since SHIELD fell. We were worried about you.”

“Well, one of my agents betrayed us, and another suffered severe injuries as a result,” Coulson answered dryly. Bucky noticed Fitz flushing. “That’s another reason we were hoping to stay here for a while; not a lot of places have medical facilities on par with Stark Tower.”

“Yeah, it’s actually Avengers Tower, now,” Tony corrected, sauntering back over. Pepper tripped alongside him, looking smug. 

“Really?” Bucky’s eyebrows rose. Tony whipped around to glare at him. 

“It’s been Avengers Tower for more than a year, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugged. “Hey, I’ve had bigger things on my mind.”

Tony stared furiously for a moment longer before jerking back to face the SHIELD folks. He pointed at Coulson. “You can have one floor. One. And I don’t want you wandering around up here, either. Stay out of the private areas or I won’t be responsible for JARVIS’ actions.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stark,” Coulson murmured, politely ignoring how close Tony’s finger was to his face. Bucky was impressed. He probably would’ve bitten it by now.

“Yeah, well,” Tony huffed. “Just don’t overstay your welcome.”

“Get the feeling we already have,” Skye muttered quietly. Simmons snorted.

“Why don’t y’all join us for dinner?” Sam invited, even though Bucky was pretty sure he couldn’t have heard Skye from this distance. Maybe he was just that good at people. “I’m sure it’ll take a while before your floor is ready, so you might as well hang out in the common area until then.”

Tony, Natasha and Bucky all scowled at him.

“What?” Sam exclaimed.

“I’ll just take a plate and finish in my apartment, then,” Bucky grumbled pointedly.

“Oh,” Sam realized. “Sorry, Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky scooped a double helping of vegetables and casserole onto a clean plate and headed out. The SHIELD agents all stared after him in various combinations of confused and offended, but he ignored them. Making sure Steve ate enough was more important, and he couldn’t do that if a bunch of SHIELD operatives were sitting around his table.

Not that it wasn’t great to see Coulson again, but it kind of put a kink into the whole Steve situation. How exactly was Bucky supposed to hide an ex-assassin from SHIELD if SHIELD was living in their house?

In his own kitchen, Bucky transferred a few small spoonfuls of food to his own plate and spread it around while he waited for Steve to catch up. He’d warm up some leftovers for himself later, but Steve had been on a full liquid diet barely a month ago, and Bucky wasn’t risking any setbacks. 

Steve dropped from the ceiling after a few minutes and settled into his chair at the kitchen table.

“What was that all about?” he asked, picking up his fork.

“Coulson’s a high-ranking SHIELD agent, died and came back a while ago and has been operating from the shadows ever since. We’ve done a lot of missions together,” Bucky explained, stabbing absently at a chunk of meat on his plate. “I’d trust him with my life, and if he vouches for his team I’ll trust them, too. Not so sure I’d trust him with yours, though,” he frowned.

Steve eyed him thoughtfully. Then he picked up his plate and scraped half the contents onto Bucky’s. 

“Hey—” Bucky protested.

“I’ll help you make dessert after we finish eating,” Steve suggested equably. He settled back in his chair, looking pleased.

“Still a punk,” Bucky groused, but he took a bite.

Then the elevator doors at the entrance to their apartment slid open, and Coulson stepped out.

For a moment, everyone was frozen, Steve’s fork halfway to his mouth. Coulson blinked.

Steve looked at Bucky, eyes wide, and Bucky lifted a finger and shook his head slightly. _Stay put, for now._

“Well. I must say, this is a bit unexpected,” Coulson allowed.

“How did you get in here, Phil?” Bucky asked, rising casually and moving around the table to stand in front of Steve.

“I noticed there was an extra place at the table downstairs,” Coulson said, glancing around the second bedroom that had replaced the living area. “One of my team is fairly skilled at hacking, so I had her bypass JARVIS’ security measures to give me access. The rest of your friends think I’m in the washroom.”

If she’d bypassed JARVIS’ security, she was more than “fairly skilled,” but that wasn’t Bucky’s main concern at the moment.

“What are you going to do now you’ve figured it out?”

“Is there something I should be doing?” Coulson asked. “I assume you have your reasons for keeping it quiet that _both_ Captain Americas are still alive.” He said the last bit with the faintest trace of a smile, but behind Bucky, Steve made a choked-off sound.

Bucky whirled around to see Steve staring off into the middle distance, rigid and white as a sheet. “JARVIS, get Bruce,” he snapped before crouching down.

“Steve. Hey, Stevie, it’s all right. Look at me,” he said softly. God, he hoped this was just a bad flashback. He hated having to hope that, but with all the implants in Steve’s brain, it could easily be something worse. “You’re safe. You’re in the Tower, I’m here, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Look at me, Stevie. You’re safe here.”

Slowly, Steve’s eyes wandered over to Bucky’s face. 

“That’s it,” Bucky attempted a smile. “See, I’m right here. I’m with you.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathed. He reached out with his flesh hand, drew back, and then lunged forward, collapsing into Bucky. 

“Yeah, Steve,” he murmured, holding on as tight as he could. “Right here.”

Faintly, Bucky heard the elevator doors open again, and Steve startled.

“Just me,” Bruce called hurriedly.

“Just Bruce,” Bucky reaffirmed. Steve snorted wetly into his shoulder. 

“Thanks, Buck, I never would’ve guessed,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well. You’re such a knucklehead, I always gotta double check these things, pal.”

“Jerk.” Steve didn’t let go, though.

“You two seem to have this in hand,” Bruce started, a questioning lilt in his voice.

Bucky felt rather than saw Steve nod a little.

“So Agent Coulson and I will leave you to it.”

Bucky might have been imagining it, but he thought a hint of the Big Guy had trickled into Bruce’s voice at the end there.

He had good friends.

\+ + +

Half an hour later, Natasha and Pepper had dragged Bruce back upstairs and turned on a movie about an attractive woman going to law school, which Steve seemed to be enjoying.

Bucky left them to it. Natasha would know if Steve got triggered again, and he trusted those three to talk him down if necessary.

He had a SHIELD agent to face.

He found Coulson in the living room on the common floor. The other agents were nowhere to be seen. 

“I guess you’re probably wondering what that was about.” Bucky flopped down on the couch next to his friend. 

“No, actually,” Coulson replied. “Clint and Natasha filled me in on the situation while Stark was shooing my agents into some makeshift quarters. I think he may just have thrown some spare bedding into one of his labs and called it a day,” he mused distractedly. 

Bucky glanced at him. It was always hard to tell what Phil was thinking, but despite the digressions, something in his face made him look suddenly very old. 

Bucky could relate.

“He isn’t Captain America,” Bucky said quietly.

“No,” Coulson agreed, closing his eyes. “And I’m sorry for calling him that. I assume that’s what triggered his flashback.”

“Yeah, probably.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Dammit, I can’t believe Nick didn’t tell me,” Coulson leaned forward, rubbing his forehead. “I mean, he said Stark had killed the Winter Soldier. He was quite upset about it, and I didn’t understand why. I had no idea it was…”

“Steve,” Bucky supplied. He paused. “Are you going to tell him?”

“That he’s still alive?” Coulson sighed, staring contemplatively at the coffee table. There was still an equation written on it in sharpie from when Tony had been particularly agitated. Pepper had been furious when she’d seen it. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“He’d think Steve should be locked away. He’d see him as HYDRA’s Asset, and he’d take whatever steps he considers necessary to keep everyone else safe,” Bucky replied promptly.

“He might not,” Coulson argued.

“What, you think the mastermind behind Project Insight is gonna take any chances here?”

Coulson said nothing.

“Please, Phil.”

“…Alright.” Coulson shook his head. “I won’t say I agree with you, but I can see why you might be worried.” The corner of his mouth quirked wryly. “And turnabout is fair play, I suppose.”

Bucky relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Try and keep the other agents from learning he’s here, though,” Coulson advised. 

Bucky huffed. “If they listen to Tony and keep to their own floor, then between JARVIS and Steve’s own paranoia, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he admitted reluctantly. He didn’t _love_ having SHIELD there, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be.

“Good.” Coulson nodded. “That’s good. I mean, not that he’s paranoid, but that he’s—he’ll be safe.” 

Bucky watched in astonishment as a faint flush crept across Coulson’s face. 

It was like Christmas had come early.

“Still got a case of the old hero-worship, hey?” Bucky nudged at his shoulder. “I mean, I can’t blame you. Steve cuts quite a dashing figure.”

“Alright, Barnes, that’s enough,” Coulson muttered.

“I am absolutely telling Clint and Nat. It will never be enough.”

Coulson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine,” he paused. “Just… don’t tell Nick.”

The sound of Bucky’s laughter echoed through the living room. 

Finally, things were starting to go right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I bitten off more than I can chew by adding in the Agents of SHIELD? Almost certainly. Do I care? Not a whit.
> 
> Do note that I've watched all of three AoS episodes like four years ago, so—while I internet-researched the fork out of them—the characterization here might be a little wonky! Also, AoS canon is heavily cherry-picked. For those of you who care: Grant did betray them, and Fitz and Simmons had the whole thing where they went to the bottom of the sea and, due to lack of oxygen, Fitz got brain damage (resulting in anomic aphasia, hallucinations, and difficulty performing previously simple tasks). Everything else? Mmmmnahhhhh. I mean, most of the stuff pre-Hydra Uprising probably still happened, but we don't care about it.
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you want the AoSers to guest-star in the next few chapters! Currently I don't plan to include them much—they're just here so Coulson can be—but I can be persuaded to change that.


	15. Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re just asking for another Depression,” Steve muttered. Bucky nodded vigorously. 
> 
> “But every time I say that, Tony makes fun of me for talking like an old gasbag,” he complained.
> 
> Steve gave him a look. “I don’t know why you’d expect any different,” he pointed out. “He’s rich, isn’t he? Part of the monopoly capital oppressing the masses.”
> 
> Bucky conceded the point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief post-nightmare remembered trauma at the beginning, again described from the perspective of another person who is willing and able to help their friend through it.

Three good things happened over the course of the next few weeks.

Admittedly, the first thing started off pretty bad.

Bucky woke up with a start to the loud chiming sound of JARVIS’ alarm. It was the compromise he and Steve had come to—in exchange for Steve not sleeping in the vents, JARVIS would wake him every time he exhibited signs of a nightmare. At this point, Bucky was pretty sure the serum made sleep a lot more optional than it used to be, because while he still felt plenty tired, he could apparently function just fine on three hours of sleep if he had enough coffee in the morning. So that was a plus.

Half the time Steve just sent Bucky back to bed, anyway, but as soon as Bucky poked his head in Steve’s door he knew this was one of the bad ones.

“Hey, Steve,” he whispered. “Can I turn the light on?”

“No,” Steve blurted, hunching further into himself. 

“Okay,” Bucky nodded. “Can I come over?”

Steve nodded fervently, visible even in the dimness. Bucky shuffled slowly across the room and took a seat beside Steve on the bed.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Steve was silent for a minute. Deciding, or working up the courage to speak, Bucky wasn’t sure which.

“They took my arm, Buck,” he finally gasped out. “They took—I woke up and it was gone, and now I can’t—”

He leaned sideways, towards Bucky. Bucky opened his arms a little, just enough to be an invitation, and Steve collapsed against him.

After another long silence, Steve said softly, “It’s just a dumb little thing, compared to everything else. But I guess I’ll never draw again. That’s what I was thinking, when I first saw what they did.” 

“Aw, Stevie,” Bucky muttered.

“S’okay,” he shrugged into Bucky’s side. “Like I said, it’s just a stupid little thing.”

“It’s not, though.”

Steve sighed lowly. “It is.” Almost inaudibly, he added, “I need it to be.”

That, Bucky understood, although he figured Sam might be right about all the therapy both of them should be getting. Either way, he let the matter drop. They fell back into their usual routine on nights like this: Bucky making up a story to tell and Steve poking holes all through the plot, just like when they were kids, until Steve finally pushed at Bucky and told him to get back to his own bed already. 

The next day, though, Bucky was still thinking about it. It wasn’t like he’d _forgotten,_ but there’d been so much else to think about that he hadn’t had time to remember how much Steve used to love to draw. It was one of the few things he could do really well, pre-serum. He hadn’t realized what it would mean for him to lose his sketching hand.

Then Natasha came by and announced that Steve had been cooped up in the Tower long enough, and was now going shopping with her. 

“Shopping?” Steve echoed, bewildered.

Natasha nodded briskly. “You need clothes that don’t look like they belong to Stark. It’s cute and all, but I think it’s time for a change, don’t you?”

Steve still looked a bit lost, but gamely hummed, “Okay.”

Bucky shrugged. “Just let me grab my shoes—” he started.

“Not you, Barnes, you’re staying here,” Natasha interrupted.

Bucky frowned. “What? Why?” 

Natasha held up her fingers and ticked them off as she spoke. “For one, we’re trying to avoid notice, and it’s a lot easier to fool observers if there are only two of us. For another, you have no idea how to shop for clothes. Frankly, it would be as much trouble having you along as it would be if we tried asking Tony to just order what we need. Besides, you two need to take some time apart. Ease up on the hovering a little. It’s only for a couple of hours,” she added, a trace of warmth seeping into her tone. “It’ll be fine.”

Had he been hovering? Bucky didn’t think so. Crap, what if he had?

“Alright,” he agreed eventually. Steve nodded beside him.

“We’ll be back around three,” Natasha informed him. “Try to relax until then.”

And then they were gone.

Bucky did try to relax. He’d started knitting a pair of blue socks, so he took his yarn down to the common floor and worked on that for a while.

Well, maybe not a _while._ After about ten minutes, he gave up and went looking for Bruce.

Per usual, he and Tony were both in Tony’s lab, muttering gibberish at each other and throwing holograms all over the place. Bucky thought he’d read this comic back in the forties, and it didn’t end too well for the pinhead that wandered into the mad scientists’ lair. 

Enh. “Hey, Bruce?” Bucky called, strolling into the lab. “When you have a minute I’ve got a question for you.”

In eerie synchronicity, Bruce and Tony’s heads snapped around to look at him. Bruce blinked and took off his glasses. “Oh, hi, Bucky. Sure, how can I help?”

“It’s about Steve,” Bucky started. Tony rolled his eyes and mumbled something too quiet for him to catch. Glaring at him briefly, Bucky went on, “He used to be real good at drawing, but he was always right-handed. Do you think that’s something he might be able to figure out again, with the metal hand?”

Bruce sighed. “I don’t know why you all assume I know the answers to these things,” he protested half-heartedly.

“Why doesn’t he just try it and see?” Tony proposed. “There, easy. Solved.”

“I think he might be scared to,” Bucky admitted. “He’s pretty convinced it won’t work, and I sure wouldn’t want to rub salt in the wound if I was in his shoes.”

Tony tilted his head consideringly as Bruce frowned. Bruce pulled up a schematic of what looked like Steve’s arm. “Is this—”

“Networked directly into his cortices, yeah,” Tony finished, glancing away. “For all intents and purposes, it’s a part of his body.”

“Well—bearing in mind that I’m really not this kind of doctor,” Bruce noted pointedly, “then I would say there shouldn’t be anything stopping Steve. ‘Muscle memory’ isn’t actually stored in the muscles, it’s stored in the brain, so unless that part of his brain has been altered—”

“Which it wasn’t,” Tony broke in again. Bucky looked at him, but Tony wouldn’t meet his eye.

“Then he should be able to access those skills just as well as he could before,” Bruce concluded. “Provided, of course, that I know what I’m talking about, which I very much do not.”

“Great,” Bucky breathed. “That’s… wow, that’s really great. Thank you. Thank you both,” he added, backing out of the room. 

He couldn’t wait to tell Steve.

“Does everyone around me just have highly selective hearing, or…” Bruce’s voice followed him, but Bucky wasn’t paying attention anymore. Finally, after all the things HYDRA took from Steve, there was something he could take back.

Bucky finished a whole sock before Steve and Natasha finally returned.

He’d moved back upstairs in the meantime, so he was stretched out on his bed when they walked in the door, arms loaded with bags of clothing.

“How was it?” Bucky inquired, raising a needle in greeting.

Steve glanced at Natasha, and when she gestured for him to speak, he answered, “Kinda fun, actually.”

Bucky grinned at him, and Steve smiled back for a second before a shadow crossed his face. “Bucky,” he said lowly. “Everyone still uses credit.”

Bucky slammed his knitting down on top of the blankets. “I _know!_ And nobody thinks it’s a problem!”

“This sounds like the beginning of a delightful discussion, but I think I’ll leave you two fellas to discuss economic policy in peace,” Natasha cut in. “Thanks for a lovely outing, Steve.” She gave her little ghost-smirk and swept out, taking half the bags with her.

“They’re just asking for another Depression,” Steve muttered. Bucky nodded vigorously. 

“But every time I say that, Tony makes fun of me for talking like an old gasbag,” he complained.

Steve gave him a look. “I don’t know why you’d expect any different,” he pointed out. “He’s rich, isn’t he? Part of the monopoly capital oppressing the masses.”

Bucky conceded the point. 

(It was good to hear Steve talking like himself again.)

Steve went into his room to sort out his new purchases, but he came back out almost immediately. Bucky looked over to see him scowling down at a sketchbook.

“Where did this come from?” Steve demanded.

“Shoot,” Bucky sucked in a breath. “Tony must’ve put it in there.” When did he even have time? “Sorry, Steve. He means well.”

Steve’s stare didn’t falter. “But why did he put it there in the first place?”

Bucky pressed his lips together. “I… might have asked him and Bruce this morning whether they thought you’d still be able to draw with your metal arm. They think so, Stevie,” he added nervously. “Bruce said your artistic skills should all still work just fine.”

Steve kept looking at him for a moment, then flicked his eyes down to the sketchbook for a moment before looking back at Bucky. Without another word, he turned and slowly made his way back into his bedroom.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Bucky bit his lip. Maybe he shouldn’t have talked to Bruce and Tony without asking Steve first.

Steve didn’t come out for dinner.

That night Bucky tossed and turned, alternating between hoping against hope that Steve wasn’t too mad at him and berating himself for hovering so much. Eventually he entered a half-lucid state where he convinced himself he’d driven Steve off for good and Natasha was shaking her head at him and calling him a terrible friend, but finally he fell into a real (if restless) sleep. 

When he woke the next morning, the first thing Bucky registered was that, for once, no alarms had gone off. He realized what had woken him was the smell of bacon burning. He turned his head, and paper crinkled in his ear.

He sat up and looked down, spreading the paper out with his fingertips. It was a drawing. Of Bucky. Well, actually, it was a very well-drawn caricature of him drooling into his pillow as he slept, but the face was definitely his own. Off to one side, in Steve’s writing, it said: _You’re a jerk._

On the back, it read: _Thanks._

Bucky smiled a little, and carefully folded the cartoon before putting it in his pajama pocket and going to help Steve with the bacon.

\+ + +

The second good thing was Pepper’s fault.

It was storming something awful when she came stumbling out of the elevator, soaking wet and dripping all over the common room floor. Bucky and Steve were playing chess at the table, but Bucky was losing his fourth game in a row, so he perked up right away at the prospect of a nice distraction.

“Rotten weather,” he commented to Pepper brightly.

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed,” she deadpanned.

Bucky was all geared up for another smart remark, but he pulled up short when something by Pepper’s feet _moved._

Then it barked.

Now everyone was paying attention.

“Is that a dog?” Sam asked, craning his neck to look over the back of the living room couch, where he was sitting beside Clint. Clint paused their video game.

Pepper flushed.

It was a dog, alright. It was tiny, barely longer than Bucky’s forearm, and looked like some kind of beagle mix. It was also clearly a stray. Grimy white-and-tan fur stretched over a ribcage that was visible from where Bucky was sitting, and half of its right ear had been torn clean off. 

Its tail was wagging like crazy, though.

The elevator doors behind Pepper slid back open, and Tony stepped out with an empty coffee mug in hand. He froze.

“Pep?” he asked slowly. “Why is there a dog in my kitchen?”

“It’s pouring out there, Tony, and she obviously doesn’t have anywhere warm to go,” Pepper pleaded.

“That doesn’t explain why she’s in my kitchen,” Tony pointed out.

At this point, Pepper noticed everyone else staring at them, and moved so that she and Tony were out of earshot. The dog stayed behind, wandering over toward the table.

Steve flinched away when it sniffed at his foot, and the dog skittered backwards, tail low. 

“Aw, you scared her,” Clint scolded. 

Steve looked at Bucky. 

“I don’t think it’s much of a threat, pal,” Bucky told him.

Slowly, Steve held out his left hand. The dog perked up immediately, and bounced over, sniffing Steve’s fingers thoroughly before licking them and rolling onto her back.

Steve obediently scratched her belly.

“Hey, looks like you made a new friend, Steve,” Sam grinned.

“Can we name her Cat?” Clint asked excitedly.

“What?” Tony exclaimed as he and Pepper came back. “We’re not keeping the dog! She’s staying for two hours and then going to the shelter down the road.”

“I think we should call her Artemis,” Steve decided at the same time. “After the Greek goddess.” Steve had been reading a book of myths recently, which Bucky knew because he kept sharing gruesome stories at mealtime.

Tony groaned and put his head in his hands. Pepper beamed. Bucky had the sneaking suspicion she’d planned it like this.

Clint just shrugged. “Cool. I’m calling her Arf, for short, though.”

Steve patted her head happily. Arf stayed.

\+ + +

The third good thing happened less dramatically than the first two. It started with Tony realizing how many of his movie references were flying over Steve and Bucky’s heads.

“Unbelievable!” Tony flung his hands in the air. “I thought Clint and Natasha had taken care of your education, at least, Barnes!”

“And Coulson, yeah,” Bucky agreed amiably. “We watched lots of movies whenever we got the chance, in between all the top-secret, world-saving missions we were doing.”

Tony waved him off. “Spare me your excuses. This ends now.”

And so the weekly “Teach Old People Modern Entertainment: Thursdays Only” event was born, or as Tony liked to call it, “TOP ME TOnight.” 

Everyone else just called it movie night.

It was fun, though. After a while, it became a bit of a ritual: Bucky and Bruce took charge of snack-making in their ongoing quest to get everyone else to eat properly, while Tony and Natasha took an age and a half to pick out a good film. Half the time Sam would suggest a film out of the blue that they ended up agreeing on.

Steve alternated between helping Bruce and Bucky make the food and blatantly eating their ingredients, Clint sat back and heckled everyone without providing any kind of material help, and Pepper somehow always slipped into the living room just in time to miss all the squabbling but still snag the best seat. No matter where anyone was sitting, Arf would wander around until she found Steve and flopped down on top of his toes. 

He was clearly her favourite.

Bucky couldn’t exactly blame her.

Things were starting to feel like they made a bit of sense again, lately, and Bucky had to admit, the movie nights helped with that. It was nice to have something a little like normal in his life, once in a while. 

It was a good thing.

Bucky was trying to focus on the good things, lately. There was distressingly little just-plain-good stuff in his life, so he figured when it did show up it deserved extra attention. 

Maybe, he thought privately, if he was nice enough to the good things, more of them would come his way.

“Bucky?”

“Huh?” He blinked at Bruce, whose mouth twitched suspiciously upwards.

“I was just going to say it looks like you’re doing a great job with that layer,” Bruce explained.

Bucky looked down at the huge bowl of fruit pudding he and Bruce were almost done making, just in time for the latest movie night. It was easier than it sounded, since the pudding was just a bunch of berries sandwiched between thin layers of stabilized whipped cream, but Bucky realized now that he’d been smoothing out the second-last whipped cream layer with the strawberry spoon for the past two minutes. 

Maybe super-soldiers did need more than three hours of sleep, once in a while.

“Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly, and grabbed the strawberries. Bruce just chuckled.

They finished the pudding and brought it along into the living room. It looked like the others had decided on “Mean Girls.” Pepper hadn’t arrived yet, but was bound to show up soon.

“This pick almost felt too easy,” Sam mused aloud.

Clint crashed down through the ceiling vent, clutching a box of chocolate.

“Oh, that’s why,” Sam realized. “No peanut gallery.”

“Check it out!” Clint proclaimed, ignoring Sam and holding his chocolate box aloft.

“You stole those from Coulson,” Natasha accused, unimpressed.

“I did not!” Clint looked wounded. “I’ll have you know that I signed for this delivery at the door, like a perfectly upstanding citizen!”

“These are Coulson’s favourite chocolates. They’re almost impossible to find in America, partly because they’re banned by the FDA. Why do you have them, Clint?” Natasha inquired, leaning back into the couch cushions.

Clint deflated a little. 

“I heard one of the SHIELDlings downstairs ordering them, and intercepted the delivery guy,” he confessed.

“They’re probably for Phil’s birthday,” Natasha pointed out.

“Fair, but consider: no fruit pudding is ever so good it can’t be improved upon with a bit of chocolate and quinine,” Clint returned.

Natasha glared. Clint pouted.

“Whatever, I’ll replace them later,” grumbled Clint.

He opened the box.

There was a moaning sound as the lights went out and every electronic device in view powered down. 

“Wha—” Tony started.

The windows shattered.

Black-clad figures poured in (how? This was the 83rd floor) and just kept coming. “JARVIS!” Tony shouted, with no response.

It was too dark to see much, and Bucky was fighting for his life in seconds. “Steve!” he hollered.

“Buck—” Steve sounded panicked. Bucky told himself that was to be expected.

“Hang on, Stevie!” he called back, trying to make his way over. “I’m coming, pal!”

No answer.

“Status!” Natasha yelled. 

“Live,” Clint grunted from somewhere above them.

“Over here,” Sam yelped.

“Yeah, here,” Bucky echoed.

Tony, Bruce and Steve didn’t reply.

“Steve!” Bucky punched out the guy he was grappling with and realized there weren’t any more of them left to fight. 

The lights flickered back on to reveal a floor practically knee-deep in unconscious enemies. Sam and Natasha were both standing battle-ready and panting hard, like Bucky, while Clint crouched on top of the nearest bookshelf. Bruce was out cold with a dart in his neck, and Tony lay next to him looking like he’d taken a nasty blow to the head. Arf was under the couch, miraculously unharmed.

Steve was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Clint's pet-naming inclinations are inspired by [this fic by dentalfloss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2578418), wherein he gets a cat called Dog, which I initially assumed was canon but which is apparently just genius. 
> 
> The chocolates are inspired by a soft drink my dad loves called Irn Bru, which is all over the place in Scotland but which is banned in North America because it does, in fact, contain quinine (a medicine used to treat malaria) for flavouring. I guess what I'm saying is that humans will choose to consume very strange things.
> 
> Also. Well, I did say there was one chapter with a cliffhanger. 
> 
> It'll be fine, I'm sure.


	16. In Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May, we don’t have time right now,” Coulson murmured. “Please, just trust me for the moment. I swear I’ll explain everything later.”
> 
> “No, I think I got it all,” Agent May told him. “Steve Rogers, also known as your favourite Captain America and, apparently, the Winter Soldier, has been living two floors above us for the past month or so, and now we’re trying to get him back because as usual HYDRA’s ruining lives. Does that cover it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back! Good news: the reason this update took so long was because I accidentally wrote the next chapter before this one. So! Be prepared for your regularly scheduled update this weekend!
> 
> For the bad news, see below. 
> 
> :D

“Steve!” Bucky ran to the shattered window, slinging half his body out in an effort to glimpse the fleeing attackers.

“Careful, Barnes!” Sam grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt, pulling him back. It was nice and all, but him falling wasn’t really Bucky’s main concern at the moment. 

“JARVIS, where’s Steve?” Bucky demanded.

At the same time, Pepper appeared in the room’s doorway. Wide-eyed, she exclaimed, “What the hell happened?” 

“My sensors do not detect Captain Rogers anywhere in the building, Captain Barnes,” JARVIS reported pleasantly. Great.

“Looks like HYDRA happened,” Natasha informed Pepper. She slipped her knives unobtrusively back up her sleeves. “Barton, did you manage to get a tracker on any of them?”

Clint surveyed the room full of bodies, still perched atop the bookcase. “None that are still alive,” he announced, looking apologetic.

“Wait, how many of these guys are dead?” Sam interjected.

Natasha, Clint and Bucky exchanged an awkward look. “How many did you take down?” Natasha asked Sam diplomatically.

“Seriously?” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

Pepper squeaked. “Oh, God! Tony!”

At the sound of his name, the man in question gave a low groan and stirred. Bucky glanced at him. He didn’t look great, but then head wounds always bled a lot. He was probably fine.

Pepper dashed to his side, dropping to her knees and issuing a number of orders to JARVIS while she started giving Tony first aid. 

Yeah, see? Pepper had it covered.

“If Clint didn’t plant a tracker, how are we gonna do this?” Bucky asked Nat.

Natasha pursed her lips. “If we hurry, we might be able to interrogate the survivors.”

“No, but seriously, tell me more than two of these guys are still alive,” Sam tried.

Clint raised his eyebrows. “Man, you only took down two?” 

Sam glared. “Hey,” he began, but was interrupted when one of the agents on the ground started convulsing.

“ _Heil_ HYDRA,” he gurgled through a mouthful of foam, before falling still. Arf whined quietly, skittering further underneath the couch.

After an awkward moment, Natasha shrugged. “Well, there’s still one left,” she pointed out.

“Not for long,” Tony interjected, and Bucky turned to see him conscious and wincing as he staggered to his feet. “And we can’t expect they’ll tell us anything even if we get the chance to ask.” He waved off Pepper’s efforts to get him to hold still. “I’m fine, Pep, check on Bruce.”

“Bruce is here, too?” Pepper looked exasperated. Bucky pointed to where he was lying half-hidden beneath one of the dead agents. “Why didn’t someone else check on him while I was making sure Tony wasn’t dead?”

“He’s fine,” Clint dismissed. “Just a tranquilizer to the neck, no biggie.”

“I hate all of you,” Pepper muttered.

“Do we have any idea where they’d be taking him?” Bucky asked desperately, trying to get back on track.

“Taking who?” Coulson stepped carefully over a dead agent as he entered the room, flanked by all four of his agents. “What happened up here?”

Bucky grabbed at his hair. “Nothing—Phil, we don’t have time for this.”

“There sure was a lot of commotion for ‘nothing,’” Phil commented, eyes sweeping the room. Bucky watched the pieces click into place. 

“They took Captain Rogers,” Coulson stated. Ignoring his team erupting with questions around him, he went on, “We have to tell Nick.”

“No,” Bucky barked, falling automatically into a loose defensive stance. “Or, what, d’you think Fury will issue a no-kill order on the Winter Soldier?” He laughed harshly.

Coulson didn’t flinch. “Captain Rogers knows Nick’s not dead,” he said evenly. “HYDRA didn’t, but they will find out, and they will send the Soldier after him. Barnes, I’m not gonna let that happen.”

“Okay, let’s press pause for a second. I call time.” Tony rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck and making everybody flinch. “Can we just—can we consider the possibility that this doesn’t have to be the Hunger Games: boyfriend edition? We’ve still got time to get Steve back before they,” he grimaced, “recalibrate him. Fury’s not in danger right this second, so why don’t you just give us a chance to find Steve before you call in the big boys, Agent Smith? That’s a reasonable request, right? I think that’s reasonable.”

Coulson hesitated, considering. “Fine,” he said at last. “You have eight hours. After that, whether we’ve retrieved Captain Rogers or not, I’m calling Nick.”

“Phil,” May growled, touching his shoulder.

“Bucky’s right, May, we don’t have time right now,” Coulson murmured back. “Please, just trust me for the moment. I swear I’ll explain everything later.”

“No, I think I got it all,” May told him. “Steve Rogers, also known as your favourite Captain America and, apparently, the Winter Soldier, has been living two floors above us for the past month or so, and now we’re trying to get him back because as usual HYDRA’s ruining lives. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell me about any of this in the first place.”

Coulson coughed.

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” May added, flipping her hair over her shoulder and walking away. 

Bucky almost grinned.

“Alright, Sam, which one of these guys did you take down?” Tony asked, clapping his hands together briskly.

“Um.” Sam squinted down at the mess of black-clad agents. “It’s not like I was trying too hard to tell them apart in the dark,” he pointed out, “I was kind of busy with not dying. Actually, they still all kind of look the same. Is—are they _all_ white men?”

“Are you surprised?” Skye cut in.

“I’m not sure what other demographic you were expecting to join an organization that is, essentially, Nazism on steroids,” Nat added dryly.

Sam nodded, conceding the point, and then they were interrupted by the agent at Sam’s feet seizing and coughing out another “ _Heil_ HYDRA.”

“Dammit,” Bucky swore in the sudden silence afterward. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” He pressed his knuckles into his eyes, seeing stars. “Well, there goes our only lead. After all that, there it goes!” He laughed, a short bark that sounded more like a sob, so he snapped his jaw shut. 

“Oh, God, I’ve lost him again,” he whispered.

“No, you haven’t,” Tony interrupted. 

He stood up, only swaying a little bit, and his suit built itself around him. “We’re getting him back, Barnes.” 

“Right,” Natasha nodded sharply, lips curving microscopically upwards when Bucky caught her eye. “Coulson,” she snapped. “Get your team scouring SHIELD archives for abandoned bases in the area. There’s a chance HYDRA’s camped out in one of them.”

Coulson raised an eyebrow, but dipped his head when his agents looked at him. “You heard Agent Romanoff,” he said.

Skye’s eyes lit up. “Does this mean I get to play with your AI?”

“Wh—no!” Tony called after her, but she was already halfway out the door. “No, you may not mess around with JARVIS!” The other agents followed on Skye’s heels, though Simmons sent Tony a pitying look. 

Tony groaned. “Pepper, I don’t suppose you can keep an eye on them? Make sure they don’t break Stark Industries?”

“One of these days you’re gonna build an iron suit for me, and then I won’t have to hang around cleaning up your messes,” Pepper muttered. Tony’s eyes lit up consideringly. 

Clint swung down from his bookcase and snapped his fingers in front of Tony’s face. 

Tony blinked and scowled.

“Rescue now, invent later,” Clint insisted.

“Right. Pep, you and Bruce, whenever he wakes up, can help the SHIELD team track down possible leads from here, yeah?”

Pepper nodded, steely-eyed. “On it.”

“The rest of us will split up and search from the ground,” Natasha took over, pulling up a holographic map over the counter to divide the city into four sections.

“Tony, Clint, Sam, it doesn’t really matter which sections you pick; two of you can fly, and Clint parkours over buildings in his spare time,” she started. “Bucky and I will split the section closest to the tower, since we have the shortest ranges of vision. We’ll try and find some clues about where they’ve gone, even if none of the other searches turn up anything.”

Bucky nodded robotically, grabbed a comm, and headed out with the others. 

It was a long shot. It was a damn long shot in the dark, and they’d probably come up empty.

They weren’t giving up, though. That was good, he reminded himself.

He’d learned his lesson about giving up on Steve, seventy years too late.

\+ + +

“We’ve got a possible hideout, abandoned SHIELD base showing signs of activity over the past two weeks,” Bruce’s voice came over the headset.

“Sure it’s not just squatters?” Tony asked.

“Not 100%, but usually squatters don’t have large, unmarked delivery vans making regular runs, right?”

“Better than nothing,” Bucky interrupted. “Give us the coordinates, Banner.”

Bruce rattled off the location. “I’m on my way there, too. Not to get anyone’s hopes up, I mean, it might be a red herring, but I think there’s a good chance it’s HYDRA, even if it isn’t Steve.”

They’d been searching for seven of the eight hours Coulson had given them, with no sign. At this point, Bucky would take anything. “HYDRA base means a lead, anyway,” he pointed out.

“Hope so.”

“Converge a block out from the base,” Natasha ordered. “We’ll coordinate our attack from there.”

“Your dog finally came out from under the furniture, by the way, Barnes,” Pepper said conversationally as Bucky started in the base’s direction. “No idea how she found her way to the lab, but she’s sitting in my lap right now.”

Bucky huffed. “Good to know at least one of us isn’t permanently scarred from tonight.”

“I taught her that,” Clint interjected, sounding proud.

“Taught her what?” Sam asked.

“How to get into the vents. She can fit into the small ones, too, so now she goes wherever she wants. _Good dog, Arf!”_ he yelled, to a chorus of protesting voices.

“Geez, Clint, bust my eardrums, why don’t you,” Tony grumbled.

“Your message has been relayed. Arf is glad to know she’s a good dog,” Pepper informed them.

“I’m at the meetup,” Tony said, after a lapse.

“Me too,” Natasha stated a minute later. 

“Same,” Sam added, just as Bucky swung around the corner and spotted them.

“Where did you get that motorcycle?” Tony demanded. 

Natasha and Bucky both looked at him.

“Alright, geez,” Tony said immediately, face a bit pale. “Forget I asked.”

“I made it,” Bucky reported into the comm, and as Bruce stepped out of a taxi beside them, “Bruce too. We’re just waiting for you, Hawkeye.”

“Yeah, yeah. I see how it is,” Clint grumbled. “Picking on the deaf guy, huh? This is ableism, I’ll have you know.” Nat rolled her eyes. “I’d like to see any of you parkour faster than me. I was on the opposite side of the city, and you want me to—here!” Clint dropped from the sky to land behind Bucky, and Sam startled.

“Geez! Where’d you come from, dude?” he exclaimed.

“All men have limits. I ignore mine,” Clint intoned. “I am the night.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, man. You do you.” 

He learned quickly. 

“Skye’s remotely hacking the entry codes,” Bruce told them, adjusting his glasses nervously. “The doors should all be open as soon as we let them know we’re ready.”

“Alright. Sam, Clint, Barnes, you come in from the back,” Natasha began. “Tony and I will storm the main entrance. Nobody gets out alive. This isn’t a Code Green yet, but stand by for if we need you, Banner.”

“Roger that,” Bruce nodded.

“Let’s kill these bastards,” Bucky growled.

They got into position and Nat radioed Pepper when they were set. 

“Opening the doors in three… two… one,” Pepper relayed.

Bucky watched what looked like a really high-tech trapdoor fly open from the ground in front of them. After that, he didn’t wait.

Between him, Hawkeye and the Falcon, they made quick work of the HYDRA agents—and Bruce was right, the base was swarming with them. Just because SHIELDRA was officially disbanded, Bucky guessed, that didn’t mean you had to abandon a perfectly good headquarters.

Lazy terrorists made for good enemies, when they weren’t plotting to torture and re-brainwash your best friend.

“We’ve found what looks like their lab,” Natasha reported tersely. “No sign of Steve now, but their equipment indicates they were prepared for him. Stark’s attempting to hack their computers on site, see if we can dig up anything useful.”

“There was a scientist in here when we arrived, it looks like he deleted a bunch of stuff before we got to him,” Tony said after a minute. Bucky found the room he and Natasha were in and motioned for the others to join him; they’d taken care of all the agents they could find.

“I don’t,” Tony started, rubbing his neck. “There’s a list of HYDRA bases here, which is cool, super helpful for when we’re focusing on wiping them off the map, but it doesn’t look like there are any other outposts in NYC.”

“What about Steve?” Bucky interrupted impatiently.

Tony’s eyes slid over to where a man in a white lab coat was lying motionless, a few feet away. 

“Tony,” Bucky repeated, ignoring the sinking feeling he was getting. “What does it say about Steve?”

“Nothing,” Tony said finally. “The guy must’ve deleted whatever info they had on Rogers. I don’t know if he was ever here, or even if they were ever definitively expecting him to be here. This is—it’s a dead end, Barnes.”

A _dead end._ Bucky stumbled backwards, blindly making his way out of the room. Out of the base. Nobody stopped him. The cool outside air hit his face, together with a reddish ray of sunlight. Dawn already.

Steve’s time was up. Coulson was calling Fury in, and Fury would call all his people and tell them Steve was armed and extremely dangerous, and he would probably be right. If he wasn’t, it would be because something worse had already happened to Steve.

After everything, that was it? A dead end?

No. Nope, Bucky wasn’t accepting that. 

He turned on his heel and stormed back down the stairs. He’d turn every HYDRA base on that list inside out if he had to. 

He wasn’t giving up on Steve. Not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible, if you're paying more attention than I am, that you've noticed the chapter count go up since last time. This is because I have no self-control. I'm doing my best to keep it under 19, but no promises yet.
> 
> The next chapter is, uh... Well, I make no promises that it's less angsty, but it explains more. I realized after I finished writing this chap that the plot didn't really advance much? But eh. Have this nonsense anyway, and hopefully enjoy.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	17. Relocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Nimm ihn auf,”_ someone said.
> 
> He was caught. He had been found, recalibration was imminent, and there was nothing he could do.
> 
> The Soldier could barely move, much less resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised! 
> 
> Warnings: one character has a panic attack and some dissociation going on in this chapter, described from their perspective.

_…successfully recaptured…_

_…twenty-four casualties, but nonetheless mission success. Asset on its way to reprogramming station._

Steve kept his eyes closed and his muscles limp as he regained consciousness. In the back of his mind an unhelpful part of him was panicking, reminding him that he’d been _caught_ and HYDRA had found him and _this wasn’t supposed to happen, not again, not here,_ but he ignored it. If he wanted to escape, he couldn’t panic. 

He forced himself not to think about the consequences. Not to consider what he had to lose. 

He would not lose.

He took stock of his surroundings. He was still dressed in the long-sleeved cotton shirt and light denim shorts he had been wearing when he was confiscated, but his shoes had been removed. Thick cuffs bound his legs together. His left arm was chained to something, either a wall or an agent, but his right arm was free—likely because the metal workings automatically immobilized themselves when he was unconscious. Right now the arm was pressed up against his chest, too tightly positioned to slip so much as a string around it. The agents must not have had time to bypass the mechanism. 

That was good.

Steve could use that.

He was lying in an awkward, twisted position on a cold metal floor that felt like it was moving. Highly probable that it was some kind of automotive. Two agents conferred on either side of him, with a third interjecting occasionally from the front seat.

Steve slitted his eyes open. He’d been correct: he was in a delivery van, looking directly at the rear door. A fourth agent sat against it, gun in hand.

He closed his eyes. Took a breath. Another. 

On the third, he lashed out with both feet towards one agent, catching him in the stomach. At the same time, he grabbed the chain on his right hand with his left and yanked it out of the wall. He pivoted, whipped a different agent in the face with the now-loose chain, and dove towards the back door. 

“Don’t shoot, idiot, we’re in a metal box!” one of the agents yelled. The nearest agent ran to tackle Steve instead, so Steve grabbed him and used his body to smash the door open.

Steve jumped, rolled, and came to a halt in the middle of an alley, the sound of nearby traffic echoing from behind. Still dark out. He judged that not much time had passed since his capture. Snapping the chain between his ankles, Steve made to run.

He didn’t manage a single step before the world whited out. 

Only for a moment, this time, and then the pain roared back and he heard his own choked-off screaming. Some kind of super-charged taser, he noted, presumably designed to counter his heightened resilience.

They shot him again. Things went blank for longer.

 _“Nimm ihn auf,”_ someone said.

He was caught. He had been found, recalibration was imminent, and there was nothing he could do.

The Soldier could barely move, much less resist.

“Hey, guys!” a voice called from outside his field of vision. “What are the Wet Bandits doing out so late? Don’t you have a curfew?”

A red blur knocked the nearest agent to the ground. “Sorry, that was a reference to a really old movie. Maybe you didn’t get it. Lemme try again: isn’t Ocean’s Twelve supposed to have more backup than this?” Another agent went down. “Nah, that was weak. Kinda like you,” the blur added, knocking two more agents out in a single motion. “Man, they just don’t make villains like they used to.”

After a moment, a face—or something like a face—appeared in front of him, red fabric and thick goggles obscuring its features. “Hey, sir, are you alright?” the voice he’d heard before asked anxiously. 

He considered. No severe injuries, beyond the electrocution. But he didn’t think he was “alright.”

Status: unclear.

Goggles watched him. “Do you think you can stand?”

He tried. No, he could not.

“Alright,” Goggles muttered. “Okay, okay, this is fine. I’ll just, is there someone I can call for you?”

The Soldier stared.

“Do you talk? It’s fine if you don’t. It seems like maybe you don’t talk. Okay. Why don’t we get out of here before the police arrive, and we can figure the rest out later? Does that sound cool?”

The Soldier nodded. Goggles nodded back at him, then scooped him up in a bridal carry. 

It was unexpected. His breathing shortened.

A fireman’s carry would have been more efficient.

“Wow, you’re heavy.” Goggles cringed. “I mean! Heavier than I expected? Nope, that’s still rude. I’m so sorry, Mr. Alley Guy.” Goggles looked at him, then the top of the nearest building. It was at least three stories tall. “How are we gonna do this? Maybe if I just…”

Eventually, Goggles figured out a position to carry the Soldier that left an arm free, and shot out a line of what looked like webbing from their wrist. 

“Alright, here we go!” 

He did not enjoy the ensuing experience.

Eventually they stopped swinging from a series of flimsy ropes Goggles apparently produced, and landed on top of a slightly run-down apartment building.

“Okay, uh, just hang on here for a minute. I’m going to go get a friend of mine and you can stay with him for now, okay?”

Goggles set him gently down and took off. 

While he waited, the Soldier snapped what was left of the cuffs off his wrist and ankles.

Moments later, the rooftop door burst open and a teenager with wide brown eyes and wild hair stumbled out, panting. His shirt was on inside-out.

“Hey, man!” the teenager said. His voice was obviously that of Goggles, but it was a commendable attempt at subterfuge. “My, uh, my buddy Spider-man said you could use a place to hang out for a couple hours. You wanna come in?”

Why not.

He shakily tried to stand, and immediately Goggles ran over to help him. 

“My name’s Peter, by the way,” Goggles introduced himself. “Come on, I’ll make you some tea. Do you like tea? Aunt May really likes tea, so we have a lot of it, but if you don’t like tea we also have orange juice. And water. Everyone has water, though, so I guess I didn’t really need to tell you that.”

Approximately 4.7 minutes after the tea finished steeping, Peter’s Aunt May arrived home.

She was not pleased to see the extra guest at her table.

“Peter, who’s this?” she asked, attempting to surreptitiously pull pepper spray out of her purse. 

“This! This is, uh,” Peter glanced wildly at him. “This is… Ned’s… uncle? Who needs a place to stay for the night, because—”

“Don’t lie to me, Peter.” Aunt May gave him a look. 

Peter hung his head. “I found him in an alley.”

“You—”

“He’s not a threat, Aunt May! I promise! Just for one night!”

Aunt May sighed. “We are talking about this later, young man.”

She pulled out the third chair at the little table and slumped into it with a tired huff. “So Peter kidnapped you off the streets, huh?” she asked sympathetically. “We’ve been working on that, although usually it’s stray cats and dogs he brings home, maybe the occasional bird. I mean, ideally he’s eventually going to stop with the whole _fighting crime_ thing altogether, but…”

“May!” Peter hissed. “He doesn’t know!”

“You don’t know?” May repeated, turning to him questioningly.

He twisted his mouth and shrugged.

“What?” Peter wailed. “How?”

“You still have mask-hair and your Spidey-sweater is draped over the back of the couch,” May observed. “Honey, I love you, but you’re not great at keeping secrets.”

Peter groaned, dropping his head on the table.

May stole his tea.

“So, mysterious alley man,” she started, sipping it delicately, “What’s your name, then?”

“He doesn’t—” started Peter.

“Steve,” Steve said at the same time.

“You talk!” Peter gasped.

Steve shrugged.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Steve,” May smiled. “I’m glad to hear that the Peter-tingle says good things about you.”

“You have got to stop calling it that,” Peter grumbled.

“Well, what do you want to call it?” 

“I don’t know!” Peter exclaimed. “Danger-feeling? Psychic vibes? Seriously, anything would be better. Call it the Spidey-sense if you want, just please stop saying ‘tingle.’”

“Anyway,” May said firmly. “Steve, of course you’re free to leave at any time, but you’re welcome to stay the night if you don’t have anywhere else to go. Peter will make up the couch for you, won’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, May,” Peter groaned, moving to go do so.

Then, a moment later: “Hey! Did you take my tea?”

Steve hunched protectively over his own cup as Peter eyed May’s. This was good tea, and Peter had added a lot of honey to it, which was nice. It was almost as good as Bruce’s tea.

Without warning, a crushing wave of panic swept over him.

Dimly, he realized he’d started shaking. Peter and May were saying things, but he wasn’t paying attention.

Was Bruce okay? Were any of his friends even still—?

HYDRA had found him. He had—had thought he was safe, was re-learning the meaning of the word, and they’d found him.

They’d taken him.

They’d _taken_ him.

He’d been moments away from being erased.

HYDRA wouldn’t have hesitated to eliminate everyone in that room to get to him. What if they had? What if Tony and Clint and Natasha—what if _Bucky_ —

He had thought he was safe, and then they were _there,_ in the Tower, in the middle of movie night, and he’d tried to fight but there had been so many and he’d panicked and frozen and then a dart had pricked his neck and it was all his fault and they had taken him—

“Steve?” May was saying calmly. “Steve, honey, I need you to breathe for me. Can you breathe with me?”

Steve looked at her hazily. At some point she’d come around the table to squat beside him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” she murmured. “In with the nose, two, three, and out, two, three, four. In… out. That’s it.”

Steve was having a hard time matching her breaths when he was busy wondering if he’d just gotten everyone killed, but sure. He did his best, anyway. She was letting him stay in her apartment, the least he could do was try and oblige her. 

After a few minutes, his heart rate started to slow a little. “There you go, Steve,” May hummed. “Keep on breathing. You’re safe here.”

Steve shook his head helplessly. 

“Yes, you are,” May repeated. “See, Peter has a special little tingle—”

“May!”

“Fine,” May corrected, “Peter has a _Spidey sense_ ” (“not that much better, May”) “that lets him know when danger’s getting close. Now, I may not know what exactly happened tonight, but none of it can come near this apartment without Peter knowing, alright?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Peter nod eagerly. “Yeah, if those guys from before do show up again we’ll have plenty of warning,” he asserted. “Right now things are totally quiet, though. No danger in sight.”

No danger.

Steve wanted to laugh. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” May probed gently.

Steve considered it, for all of half a second, but then his breath started catching again, and May added, “Or, Peter, why don’t you tell us about your day?”

“Sure, yeah,” Peter said, eyes still anxiously locked on Steve’s face. “Uh, let’s see. MJ asked to borrow my notes in bio class today.”

“MJ is one of Peter’s _friends,” _May told him.__

__“Why’d you say it like that?” Peter demanded._ _

__May leaned in. “Peter likes her,” she whispered to Steve with a wink._ _

__“What!” Peter spluttered. “I don’t—I mean—she’s just a friend!”_ _

__Steve’s mouth twitched upward a little, as Peter rapidly turned bright pink._ _

___“Anyway,”_ Peter said loudly. “Uh, what else? At lunchtime my best friend, Ned, said the Lego Batmobile kit he ordered on e-Bay finally came in, so he invited me over to build it with him. But he says he got it used and for super cheap, so we’re not really sure all the pieces are actually there. And, oh, right! There was, like, a mini-fire in the cafeteria kitchens! Somebody left the mystery meat on for too long, I guess, and it started smoking like crazy. It was awesome.”_ _

__“It was awesome that your school almost caught on fire?” May repeated._ _

__“No! I mean, sort of? But everything turned out okay, so…” Peter faltered. “Except the mystery meat,” he added thoughtfully. “But, does it ever, really?”_ _

__He stared off into space, apparently contemplating “mystery meat.”_ _

__“Sorry, what was I saying?” Peter jolted back to the present, so suddenly Steve jumped._ _

__May looked at her watch. “I think you were saying it’s time for bed, young man,” she announced._ _

__“What?” Peter groaned. “But it’s only 10:45!”_ _

__“10:45 on a school night,” May amended. “Don’t forget our deal, Peter.”_ _

__“My grades won’t suffer if I stay up late for one night!”_ _

__May raised an eyebrow. Peter caved almost instantly._ _

__“Goodnight, Steve,” he muttered. May’s brow went higher, and Peter sighed and slouched around the table to peck her on the cheek. “Night, May.”_ _

__“Thank you, Peter,” May smiled. “Sweet dreams.”_ _

__Peter harrumphed and headed off down the narrow hallway._ _

__Steve blinked after him, and it took a concerted effort to reopen his eyes. Lingering effects of the sedative HYDRA used, he surmised, forcing his eyes wider._ _

__May gave him a thoughtful look. “Looks like bed might be a good idea for you, too, Steve,” she noted gently. “Is there anything else you need to do tonight?”_ _

__Steve hesitated. His breath tried to hitch again, but he did not allow it._ _

__Stupid defective emotions. They should be prohibited._ _

__“Avengers Tower,” he managed._ _

__May’s forehead wrinkled. “Avengers…” she repeated. “What about it, Steve? Do you need to… talk to an Avenger? Or is there something happening at the Tower?”_ _

__Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it again, biting his lip._ _

__“That’s fine,” May soothed, patting the table by his hand as she pulled out her phone. “What about if I just search Avengers Tower real quick? Check for news, maybe?”_ _

__Steve twitched a nod, leaning forward a bit to see the screen better._ _

__**Breaking: Avengers Tower Attacked by Unknown Assailants,** the first link read._ _

__Steve reached forward and clicked on it. A video came up._ _

__“Just hours ago, camera footage captured at the scene shows dozens of unidentified attackers apparently ziplining in to the top floor of Avengers Tower,” the reporter began. “We have yet to hear anything on who these masked individuals are or what the purpose was of their invasion, but they do not appear to have been friendly.”_ _

__The video cut to a grainy, shaky image of Avengers Tower, apparently filmed from a nearby skyscraper’s window. The entire tower had gone dark, as had the buildings around it, and a number of windows on one of the upper stories were smashed. A few stray shadowy figures could still be seen rocketing up lines anchored to nearby roofs. After a moment, around ten figures slid back down various lines and vanished._ _

__“Since this incident, not just one or two but _all_ of the Avengers have been spotted scouring the city,” the reporter continued. “It appears our heroes were unharmed by the attack, but not unaffected, which leaves us to wonder: what were these mysterious intruders after? Did they succeed in their mission, and if so, will New York be paying the price once again?”_ _

__Bruce’s face popped up onscreen, startling Steve. “No, we’re—we’re all fine, everybody’s fine,” he was saying distractedly, obviously trying to walk somewhere as the camera followed him. “The Avengers and all the other people you’re asking about are safe.”_ _

__“Dr. Banner, what are the implications of this attack for the rest of New York? Should we be worried?” asked a voice from behind the camera._ _

__“No, this has nothing to do with you,” Bruce clipped out._ _

__“Dr. Banner, you say no one was hurt, and yet the Avengers are out in full force apparently pursuing the individuals we saw tonight. Don’t you think you owe New York an explanation?”_ _

__Bruce stopped. “No,” he stated, “quite frankly, I don’t. Like I said, this has nothing to do with you.” He started walking again, and maybe it was just the sudden shift in light that made his eyes flash green, but Steve didn’t think so. “Now, if you don’t mind. Get out of my way.”_ _

__The video ended._ _

__Steve closed his eyes._ _

__Unharmed. They were unharmed._ _

__“Safe,” he breathed to himself._ _

__Vaguely, he felt himself tilting sideways. Someone exclaimed from far away._ _

__Then hands were pressing up against his shoulders and his eyes snapped open. May was beside him, brow furrowed. “Hey, why don’t we get you to the couch before passing out, okay, Steve?”_ _

__Steve nodded at her and stood up. He blinked and they were at the couch, with the blanket and extra pillow Peter’d thrown on top of it. He nodded at it, too, before crumpling on it face-down._ _

__He heard May chuckle a little. She was really very kind for taking him in like this._ _

__“Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” he mumbled._ _

__And then he was asleep._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out! Spidey! Look, I was innocently sketching out plot points, and then Peter Parker just swooped in and decided to bond with everyone. This is not my fault.
> 
> (Will I ever stop adding new characters? Mm, nah.)
> 
> So: given how canon has been altered with the Steve/Bucky switch (i.e., no Ultron and no Civil War, ergo no interaction between Tony and Spider-man as yet)—not to mention the fact that my relationship with MCU canon is gently antagonistic on a good day—here's the Peter Parker timeline up to now:
> 
>   * Peter gets bit by spider
>   * Peter, being an extremely good idiot, decides to start fighting crime, equipped with homemade webshooters, goggles, and pajamas
>   * Ned finds out. MJ also finds out, because she's smart like that and Peter is, as previously mentioned, a Fool 
>   * Aunt May finds out. Frankly I have no idea how Peter convinced her to let him keep Spider-manning, but he did. Currently their agreement is "go out to stop muggers between 7 and 10 o'clock, 11:00 on Saturdays, and if your grades suffer or you get even slightly injured you hang up the suit, young man." 
> 

> 
> Chapter count update: I'm leaving it at 18 for now, because _technically_ it might all fit into one, but,,, :/ Probably two or three more installments to go before this accidental monstrosity comes to a close. :)


	18. Menaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve stared after May with a mixture of consternation and relief. Some people were kinder than was good for them, he decided after a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm not dead! 
> 
> I know I've been hibernating all winter, my apologies for that. When there isn't enough sunlight, I go into a comatose state and cannot write or...do much of anything, really. It's been sunnier lately where I am, which is probably bad in terms of global warming, but which has been very good for my mental health, so! Have another chapter!
> 
> I've also got the last two (please, Zeus, let them be the last two) chapters outlined, so unless something goes catastrophically wrong (like Fitz wanting his own chapter. I'm watching you, Fitz. I know what you're trying to do and I don't like it), the chapter count should stay as is from now on! Huzzah!
> 
> Enjoy!

The sun was high when Steve woke, starting upright with a gasp. It took him a long minute to place where he was, blinking away the residue of a dream. Not in the Chair. Movement: unrestricted. No visible HYDRA agents present. Nearest exit: three-point-four feet away, glass window, through which the light was streaming onto his face.

Not a prisoner. Not an Asset. Steve breathed.

The shuffling of footsteps made him tense, wrenching his neck as he swivelled to look behind him, but he relaxed again when he saw who it was.

“Oh, good, you’re up!” May exclaimed. “I would’ve woken you sooner, but you seemed like you needed the sleep.”

Steve blinked at her. “What time is it?” he rasped.

May checked her watch. “Just about one in the afternoon,” she told him.

Steve scrubbed at his face. “I should—” he hesitated.

Bucky. He should call Bucky. The Avengers were out in full force, attempting to retrieve him before HYDRA could make him back into their deadly weapon. Steve should let them know they didn’t have to worry, that HYDRA still didn’t have their Soldier.

But if he did that, HYDRA would attack Bucky again.

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew, logically, that the Avengers were the most powerful team of individuals he could hope to protect him. He’d made it several months without HYDRA even trying to launch a retrieval. 

But HYDRA obviously cared enough to try, eventually. That meant they thought the benefits of owning the Soldier outweighed the cost of challenging even the Avengers. Anyone Steve attached himself to would automatically become their target. 

Steve wasn’t gonna let that be Bucky. Not again.

It occurred to him that he shouldn’t let it be this kind little family, either.

“I should go,” he said firmly, looking at May. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’ve put you in too much danger already just by being here.”

May cocked her head at him, holding up a finger when he made to stand. “Hold on, hold on. Is this because you’re worried about whoever’s after you?”

Steve nodded warily.

May pulled out her phone and tapped a few keys as Steve double-checked the distance to the window, just in case. She held up the screen, open to another news site.

“I might be wrong,” she said, “but I was thinking maybe this would help with that.”

Steve tentatively took the phone from her outstretched hand and scanned the article. _Avengers Live Up To Their Name?,_ the title read, followed by: _Starkbots demolish alleged terrorist HQs across America after last night’s attack,_ and a detailed description of the carnage Tony had apparently wrought in the small hours of the morning. Steve’s eyes widened. 

If the article was accurate, just about every HYDRA base in the country had been torn to shreds.

Not to say there wouldn’t still be plenty of HYDRA agents crawling around, but still.

He looked up to see May watching him hopefully. “Well?” she asked. “Are your bad guys going to leave you alone for a little bit?”

Steve took a slow, steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he whispered. For a little bit. Not forever, but for a while.

“Good,” May said briskly. “Then you can stay and help me make lasagna.”

Steve blinked up at her. “Lasagna?”

“Breakfast first, of course,” May amended. “Or—lunch? Whatever. Lunkfest. And _then_ lasagna, if you’d like to learn my top-secret super-delicious recipe,” she winked.

Steve felt his lips curl into a smile. It still surprised him sometimes, when they did that. 

“That sounds lovely, ma’am,” he told May.

May beamed back at him and bustled off into the kitchen. “What do you feel like for lunkfest, then?” she called over. “Toast? Cereal? Sandwich? Leftover cornbread?”

Steve followed her, hovering hesitantly in the doorway. Those were a lot of options. “Whatever you have is fine,” he demurred.

“Fair enough,” May said, glancing at him. “Jam toast or cornbread?”

“Jam toast, please,” Steve finally managed. 

“Good choice,” May approved. “I’ll have some too.”

They ate together quietly, which was nice. Once they were both finished their toast, May clapped her hands together.

“Alright, lasagna time!”

Steve was surprised by how much fun it was, cooking with May. “The secret is,” she confided, “ _oregano._ Brings out the savory notes. Or maybe I just really like oregano.”

Steve nodded agreeably. Oregano was nice. Garlic was better, though. He snuck in an extra teaspoon when he thought she wasn’t looking.

You could never have too much garlic.

Once the lasagna was in the oven, May said she had to leave. “I have a shift that starts at 3, but Peter should be home in the next half hour or so,” she told him. “I’m trusting you to keep an eye on our lasagna and make sure it doesn’t burn before Pete gets home, okay?”

She was trusting him with more than the lasagna. 

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea to leave me alone in your apartment like this, May,” he tried. “I mean—you still don’t really know me from Adam.”

May stopped, halfway through putting her coat on, and placed her hands on her hips. She scrutinized him. “You’re right. I don’t know much about you. What I do know is that you’ve recently escaped some very bad people, and the Peter-tingle says good things about you, and you need a place to lay low, at least for an afternoon. Besides, you helped me make some kick-ass lasagna, and the only remotely shifty thing you did all day is add an extra scoop of garlic powder to the mix.” Steve froze guiltily, and she laughed. “I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, and I trust you not to make off with my TV in the half hour before Spider-man comes home. Am I wrong?”

“No, of course not!” Steve said quickly. He wasn’t going to _steal_ from her, but she couldn’t just—

“That’s settled, then,” she declared, slipping her other arm into her coat. “Bye, Steve!” she added cheekily, waving as she dashed out the door.

Steve stared after her with a mixture of consternation and relief. Some people were kinder than was good for them, he decided after a moment.

He knew he couldn’t go back to Bucky; HYDRA would rebuild sooner or later, and Buck wouldn’t let him leave just because he’d be putting his allies in danger. He couldn’t stay with this little family forever, either, but he vowed to himself suddenly that as long as he stayed free, he was gonna make damn sure they were protected.

“Kind” wasn’t a safe thing to be, but Steve would kill to make sure these kind people stayed safe.

Peter bounded through the door barely ten minutes later, startling Steve. 

“Hey, Steve!” Peter chirped, moving exaggeratedly slow as he hung up his coat. “It’s just me, all good here?”

Steve nodded, leaning back against the couch cushions. Peter’s danger-sense must have gone off when he opened the door—Steve’d been tense and ready to defend the apartment, in case of intruders—but when Steve relaxed, so did Peter. Steve felt a little guilty for scaring him.

“Awesome!” Peter sniffed exaggeratedly as he came further into the house. “Is that lasagna?”

“Your aunt’s special recipe,” Steve confirmed.

Peter cheered. “Yes! I love May’s cooking!”

“She said you wouldn’t be home for another twenty minutes,” Steve probed, as Peter rooted through the kitchen cupboards and pulled out handfuls of granola bars. He was a bit hopeful that May had deliberately overestimated the time so if he really was going to steal from them, Peter would catch him in the act; that would be a nice, sensible precaution to take.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter poked his head sheepishly around a cupboard door. “I, uh. Kinda took a shortcut getting home. Or, well, not exactly a shortcut—okay, I used the webshooters to swing here. Aunt May doesn’t like me Spider-manning home from school, but I thought just this once wouldn’t be a problem. Besides! We have a guest! It’d be rude to keep you waiting too long, right?” he stared at Steve with wide, beseeching eyes, and Steve found himself laughing. Out loud. 

This kid.

“Well, I don’t think I’d have a leg to stand on even if I did want to scold you for rule-breaking,” Steve told him. Peter was looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“You a rebel too, sir?” Peter inquired.

Steve waggled his head noncommittally. “Depends on who you ask.” He smirked a little. “I’ve also been called a tomfool chump who wouldn’t know a rule if it kicked him in the face, but y’know. I like ‘rebel’ better.”

“Awesome,” Peter said, grinning. He plopped down at last on the couch across from Steve, offering him a granola bar. “Hungry?”

Steve took it gratefully. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Peter began as he unwrapped a bar of his own, “this is a _lot_ of snacks when we’re having dinner in like, forty minutes, but I swear I’m not wrecking my appetite. I got a stupid high metabolism from the spider bite, the one that gave me powers, I mean. So I’m hungry, like, all the time. It kinda sucks, honestly.”

Steve nodded fervently. He was pretty sure May had offered him the standard amount of food necessary for a normal human to function, but by the time Peter walked in the door he was famished.

Peter shot him a glance. “You can relate, huh?”

“Uh,” Steve stiffened.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” Peter added quickly.

Before the conversation could go any further, there was a knock on the door. 

“Wha—who?” Peter mumbled. “Stay here, sorry, I’ll just be a second,” he added to Steve, getting up.

“Hey, loser, what gives?” a voice floated in as soon as Peter opened the door. 

“MJ! Ned! I’m so sorry! I totally forgot—”

Before Peter could stammer out a “wait, don’t do that,” a curly-haired girl with light brown skin and a scowl had shouldered past him and spotted Steve. Her eyes went wide.

“Peter, do you have someone over?” another person was asking, presumably Ned. 

“I, um…” 

Finally, Peter shuffled back into the living room, sheepishly waving his friends inside. “MJ, Ned, this is Steve. He’s a friend from, um, work.”

“You mean like… _work_ work?” Ned raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Like,” he made a wiggly hand motion and mouthed _work._

“Yeah, Ned, Spider-man work,” Peter said defeatedly.

MJ squeaked.

“It’s okay, he knows about it,” Peter told her, but she was still staring right at Steve. It was making him a bit uncomfortable.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Steve,” Ned said awkwardly.

Steve nodded at him.

“I totally forgot we made plans to study together tonight,” Peter told Steve apologetically. “We have a history test tomorrow, and MJ knows everything and Ned and I are _suffering,_ I know it’s terrible host-ly etiquette but do you mind if—”

Steve waved a hand quickly. “Of course not!” A thought occurred to him. Not that his memory was one-hundred-percent yet, but… “What period of history are you studying? Maybe I can help.”

“We’re mostly working on the Great Depression right now,” Ned said.

Steve grinned. “I can definitely help with that. If you want,” he added quickly. “I’m kind of an expert.”

“Really?” Ned looked a little tearful, actually. “Oh, dude, that would be amazing. Me and Peter need all the help we can get.”

“Hey!” Peter protested.

“It’s true, ask MJ,” Ned told him ruthlessly.

“I don’t want to use my textbook for this,” MJ said abruptly. “Peter, go get yours.”

“But yours has all the notes we need!” Peter exclaimed.

“Tough,” she said stiffly. “I… don’t have it with me.”

While she stared down Peter (who did an admirable job holding her gaze, all things considered) Ned pulled her history textbook surreptitiously from her bag. He dropped it on the table with a thump. 

“Look,” Ned pronounced darkly. “I came here tonight to learn enough history to pass this test.” He held up three fingers, ticking them off as he spoke. “Our textbook does not have half of the things that we are going to have to know for tomorrow. In an ill-conceived victory party after our midterm, Peter and I burned all of our notes. MJ, you are the only one with the information we need for this test.” He clenched his fists, looking a bit manic. “We are going to use that information so that we do not fail miserably, get kicked out of school and end up living on the streets, destitute as we search for a coffee shop that will employ us!”

“Deep breaths, Ned. You’re catastrophizing,” Peter counseled. 

MJ grouched. “Fine. This is fine, we’ll use my textbook, whatever.”

Steve was highly amused. Peter’s friends were almost as goofy as he was.

The next few hours were spent studying, more or less, Steve’s childhood. It was surprisingly relaxing. After the first thirty minutes, he took the lasagna out from the oven and brought all three kids a heaping portion, much to their delight. He only had to correct the textbook a few times, although it did seem to leave out a lot.

“There sure is a lot of emphasis on how bad the Depression was for everybody,” Steve observed at one point. “I mean, it was _bad_ , but if you weren’t white they said it wasn’t all that different from normal, except they turned you away more at soup kitchens.” He clamped his jaw shut, hoping belatedly that didn’t sound like he was too familiar.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” MJ snorted. “All our history is super whitewashed, and don’t even get me started on all the queer erasure.”

Steve caught his breath, but the other two didn’t bat an eye.

“Hey, speaking of which, check out MJ’s ‘Caps in love’ theory,” Ned was saying, flipping through MJ’s textbook. “She’s got like, ten thousand notes on it.”

“Holy—” MJ looked like she’d been slammed in the stomach, snatching the book from his hands. “Shut _up,_ ” she hissed frantically.

“What? Why?” Ned looked confused.

“Because!” MJ’s eyes darted to Steve.

Ned looked at him too. “Well, it’s not like Steve’s homophobic,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Right, Steve?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Steve managed.

“You…don’t know what ‘homophobic’ means,” Ned repeated. Looking like he was trying to be sneaky, he whispered to Peter, “Is he being serious or…?”

Maybe if Steve didn’t have super-hearing, he wouldn’t have caught that. (Maybe. Ned was, despite his best efforts, about as subtle as a brick.)

“Both of you shut up,” MJ snapped. (“I didn’t say anything!” Peter protested, but MJ just glared until he subsided.) She turned to Steve and stuck her pencil behind her ear. “These days, people generally know there’s nothing wrong with being queer,” she began carefully. “If you do have a problem with it, it’s typically called being ‘homophobic,’ and that’s seen as a bad thing. We now know that people are born feeling certain ways about certain things, and that’s totally cool and valid.”

Steve stared at her. “What.”

She raised an eyebrow in response. “Yeah.”

_Bucky,_ was his first thought. Did Bucky know about this? 

“So people can…” he trailed off. “People can just. Kiss who they want? And dress how they want? And nobody hassles them?” 

“I mean, yeah, more or less,” MJ shrugged. “Sometimes people are jerks, but that’s the idea.” 

“You really didn’t know anything about this?” Peter asked tentatively. 

Steve shook his head. He’d been so tangled up in basic things—eating solid foods, getting out of the vents once in a while—he hadn’t even considered how the world might’ve changed since he fell. 

“Tell me more,” he begged. 

The history-studying took a bit of a back seat for the next little while. Apparently there were all kinds of new words and new ways of talking about things, stuff Steve remembered from when he was growing up in the queerest part of Brooklyn, but nothing anybody ever used to name. People that used to be called transvestites and hermaphrodites were called “transgender” and just thought of as women and men, now—“except for people who exist outside the gender binary,” MJ added. “Think of gender like a colour wheel; the majority of people in general identify as pink or blue, but some people are green, or yellow.” Steve remembered his old neighbour Sammy Morris, and nodded—and gender was seen as something else again from sexuality. 

“I knew a transgender gal once,” Steve said. “She and her friends held meetings near where I used to live. She always told me she didn’t feel like a girl because she liked men—she figured she liked men because she felt like a girl.” 

“That’s valid,” MJ told him. “Plenty of trans people are straight.” 

“But then you have others like me!” Peter jumped in, “who are bi, and some are gay, and some are ace or aro or both—” 

“There are a ton of different ways to be queer, and gender and sexuality can intersect, but they aren’t interchangeable, is what we’re saying,” MJ finished. 

Steve liked that. He really liked that. 

“Ok, but _now_ will you tell him about your gay Cap theories?” Ned interjected. “We really need to finish studying before we have to go home, and this’ll make a good segue.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Steve. “Okay, so you know James Barnes and Steve Rogers, right?” He laughed. “Hey, same name, that’s pretty cool. Anyway, MJ thinks—” 

MJ lunged across the table to slam her hand over Ned’s mouth. “Hey, Peter, why don’t you list off the main causes thought to contribute to the Depression?” she suggested desperately. “Ow!” She glared at Ned, retrieving her hand. “You _bit_ me? Weirdo.” 

“You’re the one shoving your fingers at people’s mouths,” Ned grumbled. “Why are you so desperate not to talk about this? You were the one who brought it up in class two days ago.” 

“I…am allowed to refuse to disclose that information, as I please,” MJ stammered. She was very pointedly not looking at Steve now. 

It clicked in Steve’s head. She knew who he was. 

Or, more accurately, she knew who he used to be, once upon a time. 

“How’d you figure it out?” 

“I’m _right?_ You _were?_ ” MJ gasped, her head snapping up. 

Steve frowned. “Who I was, I mean.” 

“Oh,” MJ looked…relieved? Disappointed? Steve wasn’t sure. “Well, that was easy. We have a photograph of you in our textbook.” 

“Um, excuse me,” Ned interjected, “but what the heck are you guys talking about?” Peter nodded fervently. 

“Can I tell them?” MJ asked. 

“Go ahead,” Steve waved, then hesitated. “Maybe don’t mention my old title, if you can help it.” He didn’t want a repeat of that particular flashback. 

“Gotcha.” MJ gave him finger-guns. “Gentlemen,” she turned to the others and flourished, “I present to you Steven Grant Rogers, a mysteriously still-living, apparently ageless war hero. Ta-da. Also, you’re both definitely gonna fail history, I can’t believe neither of you recognized him.” 

“Holy crap,” Ned gaped. “You’re Cap—” 

“Shshhhhshh!” MJ chastised. “Did you not hear what he exactly just said. No old titles. Jeez, dude.” 

“What the hell,” Peter said. 

“Sorry, sir,” Ned said contritely. “It’s just, wow. It’s an honor to meet you.” 

Steve shifted uncomfortably. 

“No, seriously,” Peter raised his voice a little. “What the hell.” 

“Uh,” Steve said. 

Peter stared at him accusingly. 

“I’m sorry?” he tried. 

“I have been feeding and housing,” Peter enunciated, “an _actual hero_ from _World War Two_ , and I’ve been making him sleep on my couch?” Oh no, it was the eyes again. “That’s not cool, man. I have officially failed in my host-ful duties.” 

“If it’s any comfort, I’m pretty sure I’m also technically a war criminal, at this point,” Steve offered. 

“Honestly, that raises so many more questions,” Ned murmured. 

Peter just shook his head. “Sorry, dude, no, the spidey-sense doesn’t lie, and I definitely don’t get ‘war criminal’ vibes from you.” 

“Spidey-sense,” MJ raised her eyebrows. “Really. That’s what you’re going with.” 

“Aunt May keeps calling it the Peter-tingle!” Peter defended. “I’ve gotta fight fire with fire!” 

“I think it’s a great name, man,” Ned said loyally. 

“Also, you’re an amazing host, Peter,” Steve added before things got too off track. 

“I made you! Sleep! On the couch!” Peter emphasized again. 

“You _let_ me sleep on the couch, after rescuing me from…” Steve grimaced and went on quickly. “Even though you knew it was risky for you. You and your aunt have both been unbelievably generous. I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.” 

“Dude, you are absolutely telling us this story later,” Ned muttered to Peter. 

Peter shrugged him off, then snapped to attention. “Wait, so does this mean MJ was right about you and Captain Barnes?” 

MJ flailed helplessly. 

Steve frowned. “What about me and Bucky?” 

Ned rolled his eyes. “That you were, you know…” he looked at Steve pointedly. Steve didn’t get it. “An item?” 

Oh. Steve flushed. “No, it’s—it’s not like you’re thinking,” he explained awkwardly. “I mean, I was—well. I was like a kid brother to him for most of our lives, he was never interested in me like that.” 

“Wait,” MJ sat up. “Hang on, run that by me again. You both like men?” 

Steve nodded hesitantly. 

“And _you_ like _him,_ ” she went on. 

“Wh—I mean—” Steve fumbled. 

“But you think he’s not in love with you,” she finished. 

“He’s _not,_ ” Steve stated. 

MJ snorted. “Dude, you are as dumb as a stump.” 

Steve opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Hang on, I’m pulling receipts.” 

She pulled out her phone and flipped through it for a minute, before turning the screen around so Steve could see. It was an old black-and-white photo of him and Bucky, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, laughing like no tomorrow. Steve felt a pang as he looked at it. 

“Look at that and tell me that isn’t the face of a man desperately in love with his best friend,” MJ told him. 

“Who, Bucky?” Steve frowned. 

“He’s grinning at you like you made the sun rise, Steven!” MJ was glaring now. “I always figured, if you weren’t having a secret love affair, or maybe a polyamorous thing with Carter, it was unrequited love on Barnes’ end. He is so transparently gone on you, it’s not even funny. A teenager a hundred years later, whose only resources are old film clips, could see it. Jeez,” she broke off muttering, “I am surrounded by idiots. How’d I let this happen? Where did it all go wrong?” 

Steve wrinkled his brow. “He was always setting me up, though. And he was really happy for me when me and Peggy started going steady.” 

MJ huffed. “You can be happy for someone and still wish things were different, you know. Maybe he didn’t think you felt the same way for him.” 

“Hey, wait,” Peter interrupted, sitting up suddenly. “If you’re Steve Rogers, and then—those guys last night—do the Avengers know about you?” 

Steve nodded cautiously. 

Peter relaxed. “Oh, good. So you have a safe place to go after this. Right?” 

“…Sure,” Steve agreed. 

“Steve.” MJ was looking at him oddly. “Did the Avengers…hurt you?” 

“What?” Steve recoiled. “No, of course not! Bucky, his friends, they’re good people. They’d never.” 

“Then why don’t you want to go to them for help?” MJ fired back. 

Steve bit his lip. 

How do you explain to civilian teenagers that you were trying to protect the Avengers? 

“The people chasing me down,” he started. “It’s HYDRA. You don’t mess with HYDRA, not if you’re smart. And they showed last night that they aren’t afraid of… anyone, really.” 

“The attack on Avengers Tower!” Ned blurted. 

Steve nodded at him. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t good,” he stumbled. “Somebody could’ve died, easy. Bucky’s team took out a bunch of their bases this morning, so you should be safe,” he directed at Peter, “but. If I go back, I’ll be putting them in unnecessary danger. I can’t—it’s not worth the risk.” 

The kids were quiet for a moment. 

“Do you…” Ned started. “Sorry, sir, but do you think Captain Barnes would agree?” 

“I think he’d probably rather know you’re safe,” Peter agreed quietly, “than be safe himself.” 

MJ shot Peter a look, and he shrugged. Turning to Steve, she pointed out, “Either way, I bet he’d like to know you’re not in HYDRA’s clutches right now.” 

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but she was already dialing a number on her phone. “Did you know,” she said conversationally, “Stark Industries has a public hotline meant for people who have trouble getting the police to listen to them? Every so often an Avenger will get caught on camera dragging some rich white guys to jail. It’s great. Yeah, hello,” she said into the phone, “I have a Steve Rogers here, says he’d like to talk to Captain Barnes. Yes, I’ll hold.” 

Steve sighed. “Your friends are a public menace,” he told Peter. 

Peter beamed. “I know. I’ve trained them well.” 

MJ hit him in the arm. “More like we’ve trained _you,_ Mr. Goody Two Shoes.” She held out the phone to Steve. “You can hang up if you want, but I’m pretty sure Stark has tracking services, so he’ll probably be able to tell where the call came from even if you do.” She hesitated. “Sorry if I’ve…overstepped, or something.” 

Steve had two options. 

He could go out the window right now, and hope to be safely away by the time the Avengers showed up at Peter’s apartment. Peter and his friends would probably wind up in hot water, if not with the Avengers then later on, with HYDRA, for being connected to him. Steve would have to somehow build a new identity for himself, while avoiding both HYDRA and the Avengers. 

Or Steve could take MJ’s cell phone and talk to Bucky. Work out the next step with his friends by his side. 

Shaking his head, Steve accepted the phone. “Menaces,” he said again. He managed a small smile for MJ. “Then again, so was I, when I was your age.” 

He waited for Bucky to pick up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hrghrlblh this is not my favourite chapter I've ever written, but I love MJ and Ned and, of course, our favourite Peter Parker. Hopefully I did them justice, at least. I like the idea that MJ is a highly socially intelligent girl with a hardcore social conscience and desire for justice, who is also still an impulsive and awkward teenager. Also, Aunt May is an icon and I adore her. 
> 
> (I had half of this chapter written three months ago, and wrote the second half in the last three days, so despite the fact that I tried to proofread adequately, there may be minor inconsistencies in here? Please drop me a message if you spot anything that doesn't make sense!!)
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)


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